The Sign of Fourteen
by Agatha Doyle
Summary: Seq to 'A Study in Scarlet Suitcases.' Harriett Winchester accompanies Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes to Strange Hall to investigate a jewel robbery. But a dark murder soon takes place, and the Strange family suspect that an old family curse is to blame...
1. Prologue

**Note from Agatha: This is a sequel to my first story, 'A Study in Scarlet Suitcases.' Not _essential_ that you read it first, as Harriett's relation to Holmes is kind of explained, but it will naturally make more sense if you do.**

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**Do you believe in ghosts?

In the 19th century, with such popular and fashionable forms of entertainment as the Ouigi board, spirit cabinets, automatic writing, and stage mediums, with their impossible levitating tricks, and their unmanned tambourines that would rattle in the dark, it was difficult not to. And yet, as a girl surrounded by all these supposed proofs of ghosts and ghouls, I found myself distinctly disenchanted with the idea of the spirit world, and seeing in Ouigi boards and parlour mediums, not the incredible evidence for the supernatural apparently seen by others, but childish fancies and simple tricks that would play on the broken hearts of grieving people, and rob the dead of their dignity. Reason would lead the way forward, not superstition.

It was with this maxim in mind that I stepped, without fear, over the threshold of Strange Hall, on the 8th April, 1891. The rumours that surrounded the dilapidated old place, and the terrified mutterings that circulated within the Strange family themselves, had no effect on me at all; and I certainly had no concerns over the ridiculous 'curse' of Maria's silverware! But had I known of the unspeakable horrors which were to take place within those walls – of the seemingly unearthly events which would leave the Strange family forever torn, and myself, Holmes and Watson reeling for the weeks to follow – I would never have accepted dear Mycroft's invitation, and would rather have looked in to the fiery depths of Hell than have set one foot in that dreadful place...

Do you believe in ghosts?


	2. Chapter 1

"Are you sure about this, Holmes?" I said, nervously, keeping a few cautious steps behind him as we zig-zagged through the crowds of the busy London street. "What if he doesn't like me?"

"I am not concerned with whether he takes a liking to you or not, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, strolling, confidently ahead with his head held high, and his cane at his side. "What matters is the case he has to offer us, and I had to bring you along, as Watson was not available."

"Well, I _am _concerned with it, Holmes!" I retorted, hurrying up to his side, and having to keep up an uncomfortable half-trot in order to step in time with his long strides. "After all, _you_ weren't exactly pleased to meet me when we first met. What if he's the same?"

"As I recall, you threw a glass of water over me," Holmes said, stopping briefly, and looking down at me with a sardonically raised eyebrow. "Forgive me if I did not instantly warm to you after that."

"_Before _that!" I said, fighting down the colour that tried to spring up in to my cheeks. "When I told you who I was! Please Holmes; I _really _don't want to go through the whole process of 'proving myself' again." I gestured, meaningfully to my side. Sherlock Holmes twitched, uncomfortably.

"What do you propose, then?" he asked. "That I leave you on the doorstep until I am done? And what if this case requires Watson and myself to go away for a while? What will you do then?"

"Mrs. Hudson could watch me, if that's what you're worried about," I said, coldly, attempting to draw myself up to a mature height. "And besides, I can look after myself."

"Nonsense. I shall not be held accountable for leaving a child alone in my apartment."

"I am _not_..!"

"Do not argue with me, Miss Winchester, it is a foolish man or woman who attempts to argue with me! Just ask Dr. Watson. In any case, I shall have to introduce the pair of you at some point. You are..." He struggled with himself for a moment "..._family_, after all, and it would be quite impossible to carry on without informing him of your existence. I really do not know what you are so nervous about, he is quite passive. Most likely, he shall not even have the energy to criticise you in any way." I shook my head as Holmes strolled ahead down the street.

"A pity his brother isn't more like him!" I muttered under my breath as I followed.

I had been living in Baker Street with my cousin, Sherlock Holmes, for a little over two weeks now, since my stepmother had turned me out of the house, after accusing me of stealing her pearls (Thanks to Holmes, however, my name had been cleared, and the despicable Rowena had been sentenced to three, _very _well deserved years in prison, after committing a string of insurance swindles, including the fake theft of the pearls.) Those two weeks had been by far the most interesting (and traumatic) days of my young life. I had accompanied Holmes on a murder investigation, witnessed a murder myself, and, just twelve days previously, had managed to get myself shot.

Holmes was not the most sympathetic of relatives, but he had been kind to me (or as kind as his mind of iron and heart of steel would allow,) and had consented for me to stay in Baker Street until my injuries were healed. The bullet wound in my side still bothered me at night, but I was able to stand up and walk about much more comfortably now, and the scar looked a little less livid. I was not sure what Holmes's current attitude towards me was (he had hated me with a passion on our first meeting,) but he always kept his gentleman's air when conversing with a lady, and treated me with the same respect he seemed to grant Watson (although he did not have the same fleeting, affectionate regard for me that he sometimes appeared to have for his friend. I felt that I was tolerated, if anything else.)

Yesterday evening, a telegram had arrived at 221b, bearing a curious message;

'Dear Sherlock' – This alone stunned me, as I had never heard anyone refer to Holmes by his Christian name; not even Watson, who had been his closest friend for a number of years – 'Something interesting has cropped up. Come by tomorrow at midday for tea, and I shall explain all. M.'

"Who's 'M'?" I had enquired, peering over Holmes's shoulder at the telegram.

"My brother, Mycroft," Holmes had replied. "Your other cousin."

This was all I had received by way of a description of Mycroft Holmes. I had first learned that Holmes had a brother upon my arrival in Baker Street, but had heard little of him, and Holmes certainly kept no family pictures around 221b. I had reasoned from this that perhaps the two did not get along, but Watson had then informed me of quite the opposite; "Although I'm sure there could not be a more dissimilar pair of siblings, they are fond of each other. True, there is a little rivalry between them, I fancy, but it is only sporting, nothing malicious – I think they rather enjoy it."

"Why doesn't he visit more often, then? Mrs. Hudson told me she's only ever seen him here once."

"Mycroft's not the visiting type," Watson said, slowly, and as he did so, I saw him peering, cautiously out of the corner of his eye at Holmes's bedroom doorway. "If I may be frank, he's unhealthily reclusive; the only company he takes of a day is his fellows at the Diogenes Club, who are all under strict instructions never to utter a word to each other! It's the Club rule. I never was in an odder place, the silence quite unsettled me...Anyway, as I said, you could not find two men at more opposite ends of the spectrum, so I doubt they could find much to do together by way of socialising. There is only one thing they seem to have in common."

"What's that?"

"They are both remarkable."

And so, at noon on the 7th April, 1891, I found myself hurrying along the hectic Pall Mall to meet the remarkable, reclusive, and mysterious Mycroft Holmes.

Holmes (Sherlock, that is,) continued to lead the way with his brisk walk, past dozens of smart grey houses, with arched windows, and stern-looking, deep green painted doors, until we came to one in particular (How Holmes could tell them apart, I am not sure, as all they all seemed identical to me.) He rang the bell, and we were let in by a haggard, but pleasantly-mannered, middle-aged woman in a grey dress and a lace shawl.

"Mr. Holmes, isn't it?" she said, taking our hats, and Holmes's cane. "Lovely to see you again, sir. Mr. Holmes is up in his sitting room, I've just laid out afternoon tea. You remember the way up, I'm sure."

"Thank you, Mrs. Stern," Holmes said, and he proceeded to mount the winding staircase, muttering to himself as he went up, "How Mycroft manages these stairs in his condition, I really don't know!"

We ascended to the first floor, and I found myself nervously dusting down my dress, and tweaking my hair, and fidgeting with my mother's ring on my right hand. There were two doors on the first floor, and Holmes rapped on one of them with his cane.

"Is that you, Sherlock?" a deep, somewhat husky voice called from inside.

"It is, Mycroft."

"Come in then, come in..."

Holmes opened the door, but signalled me to remain outside, and placed a finger to his lips. I was thankful for the pause, but knew that I would have to enter the sitting room at some point.

"Brother Mine," Holmes said as he entered the room, leaving the door ajar so that I could listen.

"Sherlock, my boy," the voice replied, cheerfully. "Good to see you. Watson not with you today?"

"No, he was busy with his patients."

"Very well, very well. Well, I shan't tally, Sherlock, as I know you like to leap on a case like a panther..."

"Yes, before you continue, Mycroft," Holmes interjected; "I have something rather important I need to tell you."

"No doubt something to do with the mysterious visitor you have lingering outside the door," said Mycroft, and my stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. I heard Holmes chuckle.

"You deigned that I had left the door open for a purpose?" he said, in an amused tone.

"It is not your habit to leave doors open as you enter a room, Sherlock – You are far from careless, and particularly susceptible to drafts. Now, why is it that you need to explain this visitor's presence before I am allowed to see them?"

"I am afraid she is a little nervous, Brother Mine..."

"She? Oh, Sherlock, I'm really not in an acceptable state to entertain a lady. You'll have to excuse me, madam!" he called to the door.

"I assure you, Mycroft, it won't bother her. She does not pay any particular heed to formalities and manners."

I scowled a little in the direction of Holmes's voice.

"I see. It would seem that she is a little more important than a client, if you have gone to the trouble of bringing her to meet me – usually I direct clients to you. Dear God, Sherlock," he added, a little more quietly, "you haven't gone mad and found yourself a woman, have you?"

"Heaven forbid, Brother Mine. No – You recall, many years ago, when we were children, when Mother's sisters came to stay? Louisa, Lillie, Mary, and Mabel?"

"Yes indeed? This is unlike you to bring up the family, Sherlock."

"You remember," Holmes continued, ignoring Mycroft's last remark, "the young playwright whom Aunt Mabel brought with her, the American fellow who nobody liked?"

"Ah, yes. They eloped in the end, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"Such foolishness. Love makes a true mockery of respectable people. But tell me, Sherlock, what is all this about?"

"In time, my dear Mycroft, in time...I thought you preferred the slow, ambling route? Well, you will remember that they had a son in America, Cousin Robert? He wrote to us on one occasion."

"He did indeed. Red pencil on a piece of butcher's paper, quite innocent and naive. Father wasn't at all impressed; tore it up and threw it on the fire, and then gave us twelve lashes each just for reading the thing..."

"_Yes_," Holmes said, loudly, cutting off Mycroft's sentence before I could hear anymore. "Well, Cousin Robert died whilst immigrating to England near three months ago..."

"Dear me," Mycroft said, although without any particular emotion in his voice.

"...and left his daughter behind." There was a brief pause, before Holmes called, "Miss Winchester, you may come in now!"

I stepped through the doorway, and found myself in a cosy little sitting room, finely but solemnly furnished with a dark green, patterned wallpaper, a black Persian rug, a great, walnut fireplace, with a large, gilt-framed mirror above it, and, in the middle of the room, a pair of overstuffed armchairs, upholstered in green velvet, with a fairly sized tea table inbetween them, that was lavishly set with an assortment of colourful, iced cakes, jam and cream scones, and a pot of aromatic tea.

Mycroft Holmes was not in the least bit what I had expected. He was very large and stout, with hefty shoulders, and a rounded, protruding belly, and his skin seemed even paler and pastier than Holmes's. His hair was dark, like Holmes's, but dusted with grey, and stretched down in to sideburns on either side of his massive face, and his silvery eyes (much lighter than Holmes's deep, smouldering grey,) had an expression in them that I had only seen in Holmes when he was in especially deep thought – a sort of far away, introspective look.

"Mycroft, this is Miss Harriett Winchester," Holmes said, politely introducing me. "Miss Winchester, may I introduce you to my elder brother, Mycroft Holmes."

To my relief, Mycroft beamed in a thoroughly welcoming manner, and took my hand as I approached him.

"Well, I never!" he said, looking me up and down, and clasping my petite, gloved hand inbetween a pair of seemingly seal-like flippers. "Good gracious, look at that! She's inherited Mabel's red hair! Can she talk, Sherlock?" (I thought this a rather peculiar question, but then remembered that Mycroft and Sherlock had had the strictest of Victorian upbringings, and were probably used to the idea of young girls being forbidden to talk in front of men.)

"Of course she can talk, Mycroft," Holmes replied. "She's American."

"How do you do, Miss Winchester?" Mycroft said, pleasantly.

"How do you do, Mr...Er..." I looked between the two Holmes brothers, and found myself in a bit of a tricky situation. Seeing my difficulty, Mycroft smiled.

"Perhaps you had better call me by my Christian name, to save confusion, eh? I suppose you are already accustomed to calling my brother Mr. Holmes?"

"Thank you," I said, finding that I was taking an instant liking to my cousin Mycroft (rather different to my first impression of his younger brother.) "And I'm very happy to meet you, Mycroft."

"The pleasure is all mine. Perhaps you'd like to pull over that chair from the corner, sit yourself down? Help yourself to a cake, if you like; Mrs. Stern is exceptionally good at baking. Now, Sherlock, I expect you want to know about this new case I've got for you?"

"Tell me all, Brother Mine," Holmes said, leaning forwards in his armchair.

I gingerly helped myself to a very pink and sticky cake, as Mycroft began to explain...


	3. Chapter 2

"A friend of mine by the name of Sir Edward Strange contacted me recently in a very distressed state. I don't suppose I need to explain to you who Sir Edward is, Sherlock?"

"Indeed not," Holmes said, his eyes beginning to catch alight with that familiar intrigued and delighted sparkle. "A well known Member of Parliament and Catholic philanthropist, who donates an admirable amount of time, money and effort to the poor – a pillar of Christian charity. His grandmother was a Russian noblewoman, I believe?"

"Encyclopaedic, as always, dear Sherlock," Mycroft said with a grin. "I don't believe there is any well known person in England whose credentials you do not have squirreled away in that filing cabinet of yours. Well, Sir Edward's grandmother was, as you said, a Russian lady of noble birth – the Countess Maria Chernikova, a close friend of the former Tsarina, Alexandra Feodorovna. The Tsarina was never a well woman – it was a well known fact that she was sickly nearly all of her life – and she was also jealous of the Tsar's mistress. The Tsarina told her friend, the Countess, that she did not want her much beloved jewels to go to the woman if her poor health should result in her death before that of her husband's. So, she gave one of her most treasured items of jewellery – a necklace of diamonds and sapphires of immense value – to the Countess for safekeeping."

He produced from the drawer of a little, marble-topped side table a photograph, which he handed to Holmes. Holmes gazed, uninterestedly at it for a moment, then handed it across to me. I was astonished to see a large necklace, absolutely encrusted with light and dark, rectangular cut stones, scintillating, brilliantly in the flash of the bulb. Even though the colours were not captured, I could imagine that the sapphires were of the deepest ocean blue, and the diamonds gleaming white. They were the sort of jewels that bewitched the soul, and sucked the very breath from your lungs.

"However," Mycroft continued, "not to be too delicate about it, Russia has never exactly been a steady country. The poor have always been quick to turn on their wealthy masters if they do not find themselves suitably cared for. The Countess soon found herself under attack, and fled to England, where some friends had procured some land for her. She took the Tsarina's jewels with her, with, it is believed, every intention of returning them to their rightful owner, should they be sent for. However, for some unknown reason the jewels were never returned to Tsarina Alexandra, and instead remained in England. The Countess, meanwhile, married a successful English businessman by the name of Strange, bore him six children, and never returned to Russia."

"All remarkably interesting to those with a penchant for romanticism, Mycroft," Holmes said, impatiently. "You have not, however, explained where any crime comes in to the matter."

"I'm getting there, Sherlock, I'm getting there! Don't you recall that I prefer the slow, ambling route? Well, as you will know, Her Majesty the Queen bears a relation to the Russian Imperial Family."

"Indeed," said Holmes, with a trace of adoration coming in to his voice. "It is well that such noble blood holds its rightful position of Royalty, even in the furthest reaches of the world."

I silently poured myself a cup of tea to wash down my rather sugary cake. Of course, being a proud American citizen, and a Unitarian to boot, I did not agree with the concept of a monarchy – raising on high those fortunate enough to be born in the right bed, and praising them as almost Divine – but I was not about to tell the fiercely patriotic Holmes that! (I had already seen the extent of his Royal devotion blasted on the wall of No. 221b, where he had spelled out the initials 'V.R.' in bullet pockets, and did not much fancy stirring up his passion on the subject.)

"The Russian monarchy has always been a little offended by the fact that the former Tsarina's jewels were never returned to them," Mycroft went on. "I think they believe that the Countess had intended to steal them. In any case, it has been decided by Her Majesty's advisers that the necklace should be returned to the Russian Imperial Family as a sign of good will between our two empires."

"Where are the jewels now?" Holmes asked.

"They had remained in the Countess's family, and were, until recently, in the household of Sir Edward Strange."

"Until recently? Ah," Holmes said with a nod; "I see."

"That's quite right, Sherlock. Two days ago, the gems were stolen. Sir Edward informed me as soon as he discovered them missing, and asked me, in a rather hasty telegram, to send for you at once. Nearly everyone has heard of you since Watson took up his pen as your biographer."

"You have known of this affair for two whole days, Mycroft?" Holmes said, his brow creasing, severely. "Why didn't you inform me straight away?"

"I had some scruples as to whether or not it would be of any interest to you," Mycroft said, taking a small, tortoiseshell snuff-box from his waistcoat pocket, and helping himself to a pinch. "It is, after all, a mere jewel robbery. Gems taken from a safe which nearly the whole household knew the combination to, there's nothing sensational about it..."

"Except that a failure to retrieve them may result in the shame of that great lady who sits on the throne!" Holmes cried, leaping up. "Mycroft, have you no sense of patriotic duty?"

Mycroft sighed, and looked at me in a weary manner.

"Sherlock, I'm afraid, has a certain energy and hot-bloodedness which I most certainly lack," he said, and a grin spread across my face. "Well, Sherlock, the case is yours then. You may want to curb that enthusiasm of yours, however," he added, raising an eyebrow (I resisted the temptation to collapse in hysterical laughter at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, of all people, being scolded by his older brother as though he were still a little boy!) "It is the wish of Sir Edward, and certain important others, you understand, that this case be handled with the utmost secrecy. As it is, you will be travelling up to Sir Edward's home under the pretence that he has invited you as a guest, and nothing more."

As he spoke, Mycroft produced a folded card from his jacket pocket, and handed it to Holmes, who quickly scanned the handwritten contents. A crease appeared between his eyebrows.

"Mycroft, this invitation is addressed to you," he said, looking at his brother.

"Indeed it is, Sherlock; because I shall be coming with you."

A rare astonished expression came to Holmes's face; "You, Mycroft, travelling outside of Pall Mall?"

"It will be somewhat of a trial for me," Mycroft sighed, looking down at his corpulent body slumped in his overstuffed armchair; "But Sir Edward is a friend of mine, and it will be deemed less curious to the odd observer if I am to visit him. He has stated in the invitation that I may bring two guests, which will allow for yourself and Dr. Watson."

"Then you had better contact him, and ask him to make it three," Holmes replied.

I came close to spitting out my tea, and Mycroft (whose face seemed more accustomed to displaying emotion than that of his brother's,) raised his eyebrows, and stared at his brother for a minute or two, before turning, perplexed, to face me.

"You mean you wish to bring our new-found cousin with us?" he said, stunned.

Holmes answered with an enigmatic and mischievous smile. He handed Sir Edward's invitation to me, and then went to stand behind Mycroft's chair.

"Miss Winchester," he said, while his brother looked on in confusion; "Tell us, if you would, what you can judge of Sir Edward and his household from that invitation."

A little confused myself, but eager to see if I was improving in my deductive faculties, I keenly studied the card, being sure to take in every minute detail.

"This invitation wasn't written by him," I said, taking note of the elegant, slanting, distinctly feminine hand. "It's a woman's handwriting. Most likely a secretary, seeing as the calligraphy's so well done. She's also left handed."

"Very good," Holmes said, approvingly.

"He's proud of his Russian lineage," I added. "He uses his grandmother's coat-of-arms as a wax seal. The two-headed eagle's a typical Russian symbol."

"Anything else?"

"The lady who writes his letters for him wears jasmine perfume, is obsessively clean, may practice painting – most likely with watercolours – and was very annoyed when she wrote the invitation, but has good control over her temper."

I glanced up at Holmes, awaiting his verdict. He treated me to one of his slow creeping, sardonic smiles, which I had learned was a sign of quiet approval. I felt Mycroft's piercing, silver gaze studying me for a moment (he seemed to have that curious talent of being able to watch a person without appearing to look at anything in particular,) before his large, amiable face broke in to an amused grin.

"I can see what you mean, Sherlock my boy," he said, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. "Very well, I shall send a telegram ahead to Sir Edward, telling him that I am bringing one more guest."

"Where does Sir Edward live?" Holmes asked.

"The Willows, just outside the village of Thorn Acre in Gloucestershire – although everyone else calls the place Strange Hall. It's a very fitting name, apparently."

"Why is that?"

"Because," Mycroft said, his tone of voice suddenly becoming dark, "strange things are said to happen there. There is some suspicious gossip surrounding the death of Sir Edward's first wife, and the Countess was apparently a very stormy and dominating character. People say their memories still rattle around the place."

"Ghosts?" Holmes snorted. "Mycroft, please tell me you do not entertain a belief in such things?"

For answer, Mycroft merely shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"The curse of the armchair lounger," Holmes said, "is that he may allow his head to be filled with ridiculous superstitions and fancies of the world from which he isolates himself."

"And the curse of the bounder," Mycroft replied, "is that he travels so quickly, and surges ahead with such energy, that he may miss important details, and, in his enthusiasm for pursuing his own theories, disregard those of others. I take it it was your forwardness which led to Miss Winchester being injured?"

I started in my seat, while Holmes blinked, silently (his way of stating that he had nothing to say in return.) Seeing my amazement, Mycroft smiled, apologetically at me.

"I do apologize for raking it up, Miss Winchester," he said; "But you move with pain, as though from a recent injury, and there is a slight aroma of iodine, which is used to prevent infection in wounds."

"It wasn't Holmes's fault..." I began.

"That is quite enough, Mycroft," Holmes cut across me. "I think I have heard all I need to for now. What time is the train to Gloucestershire tomorrow?"

"We're getting the 10:50 from Paddington," said Mycroft. "And no, I will _not _go earlier than that," he added in response to Holmes's look. "Now, I shall see you at the station tomorrow. Miss Winchester," he pleasantly shook me by the hand. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Brother Mine."

Holmes hastened me out of the sitting room, and down the stairs, and I wondered if what I had just witnessed had been what Watson referred to as their 'sporting rivalry.'


	4. Chapter 3

I packed my old, dilapidated scarlet suitcases that night, and set off with Holmes, Watson, and a small pile of luggage, in a cab to Paddington Station the next morning. Mrs. Hudson waved us a goodbye from the doorstep of No. 221b, with Gladstone, the lazy bulldog, slumped at her feet. Mycroft was nearly ten minutes late meeting us at the station, and it was lucky that our train was slightly delayed, or it would have left without us. He eventually came strolling up the platform, accompanied by an unfortunate porter, who was pushing a pile of luggage nearly twice the size of our own, and bid myself, Holmes and Watson a hearty welcome. After a small army of porters had managed to haul Mycroft's blue leather cases onboard, the four of us found ourselves a compartment, and we were soon rolling on our way to Gloucestershire.

"I fancy you've lost a little weight since I saw you last, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, conversationally, as rolling green hills and wild hedges began to glide past our window. "I hope Sherlock's not been working you too hard."

"Not at all, Mycroft," Watson said, patting his stomach. "I've just been taking up a little more exercise, that's all."

As I looked at Mycroft, I thought that he would do very well to follow Watson's example. He smelt distinctly of a breakfast of curried chicken and ham, and there was the tell-tale rustle of a bag of confectionary in his coat pocket. I kept a healthy figure myself (although I did not go so far as to reduce the size of my waist with a whale bone corset, as was the fashion then among ladies,) and it was obvious to me that Mycroft's eating habits were far too decadent. Rather like Holmes's smoking, I thought. He was currently sat in his own corner of the compartment, gazing out of the window, and had smoked, from my count, four cigarettes since we had been on the train. Despite what doctors said about tobacco being soothing to the nerves, I could not help but think that breathing such foul smelling smoke in to one's lungs was unhealthy. I did not, thankfully, have a vice of my own, but was possessed, as Holmes and my stepmother Rowena had often told me before, of a fiery temper, which had been brought about by Rowena's foul and vicious treatment of me. It was interesting, I thought, seeing how our harsh upbringings had each left their mark on the three of us. Watson seemed the only truly balanced character in the compartment.

"Yes, that is quite enough idle chit-chat, Mycroft," Holmes said, bringing me out of my musing. "We must get to business. How many are there in the household of Sir Edward Strange?"

"Well, there's Sir Edward himself, obviously; his children – a daughter and a young son – his wife, Lady Ruth Strange, stepmother to the children; the children's governess, Miss Anna Darby; the cook, Mrs. Potter – Ethel Potter, I think her name is; her husband George, who works in the grounds; the butler, Arthur Mortimer, a rather unusual fellow he is; and then two or three maids, although I forget their names."

"And they all knew the combination to the safe in which Sir Edward kept the necklace?"

"Not the servants, of course – apart from Mortimer and Miss Darby, they knew it. Lady Ruth knew it too, I believe, and so did Sir Edward's daughter, Eve, although I doubt little Adam would have known – he's only seven."

"It's a little careless, isn't it?" I said, frowning; "Having such a valuable object in the house, and letting everyone know the combination to the safe it's in?"

"Precisely what I was about to say," Watson agreed. Mycroft shifted, uncomfortably in his seat.

"It was quite an easy combination to have figured out," he admitted. "It was the date of the death of Sir Edward's first wife, Lady Margaret. It was quite devastating to him..."

"In which case, we cannot completely factor out the servants from our investigation," Holmes said, irritably. "When did Sir Edward's first wife die, Mycroft?"

"Five years ago. He married Lady Ruth two years after."

"And all the current household servants were present at the time of her death?"

"Not the maids, they're fairly new additions to the house; but Mortimer and the Potters have all been with Sir Edward for nearly seventeen years. Miss Darby was hired on about eleven years ago."

"In which case either Mr. or Mrs. Potter could have worked out the combination to the safe. Mortimer and Miss Darby, as you said, already knew it. Well, that leaves us with a pile of seven suspects so far."

"Ah," Mycroft said, hesitantly; "Actually, Sherlock, there are a few more I feel I should mention."

Holmes looked at his brother, wearily.

"I warn you, this does not, as yet, look to be a particularly promising case, Brother Mine. Go on."

"Sir Edward has a younger brother and sister who are currently staying with him – Mr. Thomas Strange, an accountant from Westminster, and Miss Clara Strange, who currently acts as Sir Edward's secretary, is left handed, and paints with watercolours." Here he smiled at me. "Mr. Strange is merely visiting with his wife, Alice, but Miss Strange has been left rather destitute after divorcing her husband. Sir Edward has taken her in for a while."

"Divorced?" Holmes said, curiously. "The Strange family are Catholics, are they not?"

"Sir Edward and his children are, yes. Sir Edward converted to Catholicism many years ago, but the rest of his family are Church of England folk. Although," Mycroft shifted, uncomfortably again, "Miss Strange is said to lean more towards the spiritualist circle than the Church."

Holmes sniffed; "An unholy, disillusioned woman, who cavorts with imaginary spirits."

"Holmes, that is a little harsh," Watson said, sternly. Holmes gave a heavy sigh, and rolled his eyes.

"Oh Watson, please do tell me you are not also taken in by ectoplasm and rattling spirit cabinets? They are no more than fanciful parlour games, conducted by well-mannered and charming charlatans!"

"I know that, but I have told you of what I saw in Afghanistan..."

"The ghosts of dead comrades, you mean? Watson, war tries a man's mind as well as his body, and you have been tried more than most, having had good men from the battlefield die in your arms. You must not allow yourself to be convinced by apparent apparitions seen during a time of distress. I suppose I shall have to look to Miss Winchester for reason, unless you too have allowed yourself to be corrupted by this current fashion for séances?"

"Of course not," I said, defensively. "I believe the dead should stay dead."

Indeed, I thoroughly agreed with Holmes's thoughts on spiritualist circles and mediums, and had been very angry when, shortly after my father's death, Rowena had attempted to 'contact' him through a Ouigi board. I found such things grotesque, and thoroughly against my Unitarian view that such ideas about God and the afterlife should be made through reason.

Shortly before our stop at Gloucester, I got up to stretch my legs a little, as, like Mycroft, I had taken a short nap for the second half of our journey (Mycroft had, in fact, taken a rather long nap, and had snored abominably in his corner of the compartment.) Making my way through the narrow train corridors, I suddenly felt the train begin to slow, and realised that we had reached our destination. I carefully squeezed past a couple of fellow passengers, and began to hurry back to our compartment to meet Holmes, Watson, and Mycroft. The corridor was quiet and empty as I walked down it, and I did not hear the footsteps of the person who came up behind me. Nor did I even catch a glimpse of their face as they suddenly grabbed me by my arms, stuffed me in to a tiny cupboard with a few conductors' uniforms, locked the door, and walked away.


	5. Chapter 4

"_Let me out!_" I called, desperately, thumping on the door of the cupboard. Any minute now, the train was going to be leaving the station, and I would be carried away with it. I despaired as I continued thumping on the door, however, as I remembered that the corridor had been empty when I had been in it (save for the person who had thrown me in to the cupboard.) There was no one outside to hear my calls...

"...I'm sorry, sirs, but the train _has _to depart!" a complaining voice said, suddenly.

"_Please_, if you'll just wait a moment..."

My heart jumped. The voice that had replied was Watson's.

"Watson!" I called, banging on the door, but my calls still seemed to be going unheard.

"...'ere, what's goin' on, Paul?" a third voice came in.

"This gentleman says he's lost his daughter..."

"Not my daughter!" Holmes's voice protested. "My cousin! A young lady, sixteen years of age, with red hair...I don't suppose you've seen her?"

"The train's empty, sir," the voice of the second conductor replied. "There's no one else onboard."

I banged on the cupboard door as hard as I could, but there was barely enough room for me to breathe, let alone move, and my arms were fairly pinned against the door.

"She can't already be on the platform, can she?" I heard Mycroft wonder.

"That is the crux with children nowadays, Brother Mine," Holmes sighed. "They have a fascination with wandering..."

" 'ang on," one of the conductors said, suddenly, as I continued hammering on the cupboard door. "What's that bangin'?" My stomach lurched.

"In here!" I called, banging and rattling the cupboard door as much as I could. "In here, in here! I'm in here!"

The sound of running footsteps came thundering up the corridor, and a moment later, I found myself falling out of the cupboard with a sigh of relief, and nearly collided with one of the conductors.

"Miss Winchester!" Mycroft said in surprise. "What on earth were you doing in there?"

I gulped in the fresh air, and straightened my crooked hat, feeling very self-conscious of the eyes of the two startled conductors who were staring at me.

"Someone...Someone pushed me in!" I gasped.

"Pushed you in?" one of the conductors (the younger of the two,) said, appalled. "The scoundrel! Did you get a good look at 'im, miss?"

"You're sure you didn't simply fall in, Miss Winchester?" Holmes asked, sceptically. I looked at him in dismay.

"Yes Holmes, I often accidently fall in to cupboards, which then lock themselves from the outside after me!" I replied, sarcastically.

"The door could be faulty, I suppose," the older conductor reasoned, fiddling with the cupboard lock. "Perhaps a fellow passenger knocked you in as they were passing, and the door got stuck?"

"I'm telling you, someone grabbed me, and threw me in to that cupboard!" I insisted, but it was obvious as I looked at their faces that they all thought I was simply hysterical.

"Well, at least we have found you, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, taking me by my arm, and forcibly leading me away from the two conductors. "Thank you, gentlemen, we will be departing now."

"Good day, sir," said the older conductor, as we exited the train. Just as we stepped out on to the platform, I heard the younger hiss, excitedly, " 'ere, wasn't that Sherlock 'olmes?"

I attempted to bring the matter up again as we crossed the platform, but Holmes and Mycroft were simply refusing to listen. Watson kept offering me a little brandy from his flask ("For shock," he said,) but I declined. None of them were taking me seriously. I was _certain _that what had just happened to me had been no accident – Someone had deliberately thrown me in to that cupboard. But why?..

"Sir Edward said he would be sending a carriage to collect us," Mycroft said, glancing about as we made our way out of the station. "Mortimer will be driving."

"Is that him over there, Mycroft?" Watson said, pointing to a large, rather sinister looking, ebony black carriage, drawn by a pair of enormous, coal black cobs, with feathery, white fetlocks. In the driver's seat was a very peculiar looking, middle-aged man.

He was tall (his knees were drawn up almost all the way to his chin as he sat in the driver's seat,) dark and thin, and his weathered, dusky brown skin reminded me of the bark of an old tree. In fact, the more I looked at him, the more I began to think of an ancient apple tree, when its branches begin to twist and gnarl with age, and its trunk begins to go lopsided, and develop some sort of bulging growth. His eyes were the colour of sour apples – a sort of yellowish, tawny brown – and his mouth was fixed in to a permanently suspicious expression. I didn't like him, and I was careful not to look in to his stern, piercing eye as we climbed in to the carriage.

"Ah, Mortimer," said Mycroft, quite unperturbed by the disturbing aura of the man. "How nice to see you again. Have there been any further developments at the house?"

"No, Mr. Holmes," Mortimer replied, in a slow, deep voice, like that of an undertaker. "Sir Edward wishes that you and Mr. Holmes should be at the house as soon as possible; so, if we may not delay, sir? Is this all your luggage?"

"No, no, mine's just on its way. Over here, porter!"

Mortimer feared, as we loaded up Mycroft's hefty cases, that the carriage would not be able to take the weight, but we eventually managed to squeeze everything onboard, with Mycroft's luggage taking up all the room on the back of the carriage, and the remaining bags (including one of Mycroft's trunks that could not be fitted on to the luggage rack,) inside the carriage with us. We eventually set off, huddled and cramped in our seats, through the city of Gloucester, and trundled out in to the countryside.

"How far away is The Willows, Mycroft?" asked Watson (who was the most unfortunate among us, and had been squeezed behind Mycroft's enormous case, with just his head and shoulders peering over the top.)

"Only a couple of miles or so," Mycroft said, taking a pinch of snuff. "Mortimer says we can have a short stop in Thorn Acre for a refreshment at the local inn, but we must be quick about it, as Sir Edward wants us at the house as soon as possible."

"Indeed," said Holmes, "I should prefer not to stop at all..."

"A refreshment sounds like a splendid idea, Mycroft!" Watson said, loudly. "We don't want to have too much carriage exercise now, do we?"

We drove in the juddering carriage for near an hour and a half (during which time I lost all feeling in my right ankle, and had to shake my leg to get it back again,) before stopping. Holmes woke Mycroft, who had dropped off to sleep again, and Watson heaved his way out from behind the heavy trunk. I stepped out of the carriage with relief, and took a look at the village of Thorn Acre. It was a rather primitive place, but quaintly pretty, nestled between two, giant green hills, and full of the sort of little white cottages seen in paintings. The local inn, which we had drawn up outside of, was a ramshackle little place, with cracked, Elizabethan beams on the outside, and a dimly painted sign swinging beneath one of the dirty windows. I could just make out the figure of a rearing, black stallion, with the tavern's name painted in white beneath it; 'The Black Horse.'

"Will the lady be quite comfortable inside, Mr. Mortimer?" Holmes asked our driver (much to my embarrassment.)

"I should think so, sir," Mortimer said, shooting me a glance, which I was careful to avoid. "It's fairly quiet this time of day; it's only after dark that the place gets a little loud."

The inside of The Black Horse was like a cave – dark, dim, with a rounded ceiling, and smelling especially of beer and tobacco. It was absolutely quiet, except for a few local men who sat at a table in the corner, quietly chatting amongst themselves. The innkeeper looked utterly astonished to have a lady in his establishment, and instantly ordered a young boy who was peeling potatoes behind the bar to set up a chair with a cushion beside the fire. Holmes ordered himself, Watson and Mycroft half a pint of ale each, and myself a glass of milk (I had asked for sherry, but he had chosen to ignore me,) and we sat ourselves down in the spot by the fire that the innkeeper had picked out for us.

"A very quiet place," Holmes remarked, looking out of the windows at the deserted dirt road that ran through the village. "Probably a close-knit community. I imagine any strangers would be noticed passing through the area, Mycroft?"

"Yes indeed, which is precisely why we must be careful how we..."

"Visiting from the city are you, sirs?" said the innkeeper, coming over to run over our table with a damp cloth, and making sure he added a polite nod to me.

"Yes, from London," Mycroft said, giving the rest of us a discreet look, which clearly stated that we were not to say anything. "A friend of mine has invited us up for a few days, thought the hills might be a pleasant change from crowded streets and smog."

The innkeeper took in Mycroft's crisp white shirt and red silk handkerchief with curiosity.

"Never had much gentry up here before, sir," he said. "I take it this friend of yours must be Sir Edward Strange who lives up at The Willows?"

Mycroft pursed his lips; "That's right."

"And you'll be _staying _up there, will you, sir? At The Willows?"

The young lad who had gone back to peeling potatoes at the bar suddenly dropped one of the spuds, and stared in our direction with wide, disbelieving eyes. Mycroft gave a small smile.

"We're quite aware of the rumours, sir..." he began, before the innkeeper hurriedly cut across him.

"Strange Hall they call it," he said, breathlessly. "Never was a name more well deserved. I saw her myself once, gliding across the lawn in her favourite blue dress, just like she always used to..."

"I'm sorry," Holmes leaned across the table, earning a disapproving glare from Mycroft. "Who do you mean?"

"Lady Strange, sir. Not Lady Ruth – I mean Sir Edward's first wife, Lady Margaret. You know she died five years ago. She was a lovely lady, sir, probably the kindest and most beautiful lady who ever lived. Not like Lady Ruth..." He stopped suddenly, and began to splutter an apology to Mycroft.

"That's quite alright, sir," Mycroft assured him. "You are entitled to your opinion. Why do you not like Lady Ruth?"

A dark expression came to the innkeeper's face.

"There's talk, sir," he whispered, beckoning the young boy over to his side, and clinging to him, protectively; "Talk of why Lady Margaret's spirit roams the grounds of Strange Hall..."

"Assuming she does roam," Holmes muttered, more to himself than to anyone else, although the innkeeper still answered him.

"Oh, she does roam, sir. I saw her myself – about two months ago it was – and then old Sam here saw her too, didn't you, Sam?" The boy at his side nodded, enthusiastically. "Always in the dead of night, when we've been setting the rabbit traps in the woods, we've seen her – the tall, graceful Lady Margaret, in her favourite sky blue dress, that she always looked especially lovely in – making her way across the grounds of Strange Hall. It's always been from a distance, mind, but we know it's her. And the reason why she's so restless, sir, the reason why her poor soul can't find rest..."

A sweat broke out on the innkeeper's brow, and he crossed himself.

"Yes?" Holmes pressed, while the rest of us sat around the table, transfixed, waiting with baited breaths.

"It's because she was murdered, sir. She was murdered, and had her husband stolen from her, by Lady Ruth."


	6. Chapter 5

"It's quite preposterous, of course," Mycroft said for the third time, as we continued on our way in the carriage. "Lady Margaret died of quite natural causes, she'd been ill for months before her death. There's absolutely no question of murder."

I got the impression, however, both from his earnest tone of voice and his constant swallowing of humbugs from his coat pocket, that Mycroft was desperately trying to convince himself of the truth of his words.

"Nevertheless," Holmes said, evidently seeing in his brother what I saw, "you might tell us of the relationship between Lady Ruth and her predecessor, Mycroft. Was there any bad feeling between them?"

"Certainly not," Mycroft said, violently sucking on a humbug. "The two of them had been friends since they were children. It's true that they had fought a little over Sir Edward's affections, he was a highly prized bachelor, but apart from that..."

"Brother Mine, this is very unlike you to deny the truth so," Holmes said, gazing, severely at his brother. I could almost feel the temperature in the carriage drop, as Mycroft sat, stiffly upright, and glared back at Holmes.

"I'm not denying the truth, Sherlock," he said, with a quietly perturbed undertone. "Indeed, I am trying to compel my mind to accept the logical truth _over _the theories of scandalous gossips. Lady Margaret Strange was not murdered – she was not shot, nor smothered, nor strangled, nor hit over the head, nor stabbed with a knife. She suffered for months from a particularly debilitating illness, and then died. Nothing more."

Nothing more was said on the subject, and we spent the remaining part of the journey in a deep, brooding, seldom broken silence. I was startled out of my dark thoughts when, half an hour later, the bizarre and eerily composed Mortimer flung open the door of the carriage, and said, "If I may help you with your luggage?"

Strange Hall was one of the most ethereally beautiful places I had ever seen. Its fashionable, Gothic architecture showed that it was not particularly old – about forty or forty five years judging from the quality of the stone – but the cluster of weeping willow trees that surrounded it were heavy and bent over with age, their long, spindly fingers caressing the smooth, emerald lawn beneath them, and had evidently been on the ground long before the house had been there. It had a bleak grey face, adorned with a thick beard of deep green ivy, and flame red Virginia Creeper, and had solemn, dark, diamond paned windows for eyes, framed by casements of beautifully carved, dark stone. The chimneys were an imitation of the old Tudor design – elegant, swirling pillars – but had been intricately carved with designs of creeping ivy, and figures of birds in flight. The front gable of the house rose up to a tall point, and possessed a single round window on its face, the glass painted in the unusual design of the face of a clock.

As soon as we had stepped out of the carriage, and Mortimer had begun unloading Mycroft's ridiculous amount of luggage from the back (Watson offered to help him for fear that the poor man might break his back,) the face of a man had appeared suddenly in one of the downstairs windows. The face then quickly vanished again, and the front door of the house now flew open, and out ran a gentleman, who I could only assume was Sir Edward Strange. He was very tall and trim, with the build of an old sportsman, and was dressed very elegantly in a pair of grey, checked trousers, a dark satin waistcoat, a fawn-coloured frockcoat, trimmed with the same grey, checked pattern as his trousers, and a paisley print bowtie. He evidently took great pride in his appearance, as he had anointed his glossy, chestnut brown hair with lime cream, and had groomed his moustache with a fine wax. His eyes were a striking, deep brown, and his face was a handsome, finely chiselled one, although worn and blanched from much stress.

"Mycroft!" he said with a relieved sigh, shaking Mycroft by the hand. "Thank God! I take it this must be your cousin, Miss Winchester, and your famous brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

He shook Holmes's hand, and dipped his head to me, which I answered with a polite curtsey (I did not often curtsey, but I had been practicing of late, and had finally mastered keeping my knees steady, although I still could not help doing it rather slowly and melodramatically.)

"I only wish our meeting could have been under less difficult circumstances, Sir Edward," Holmes said, bowing his head, respectfully to the Knight of the Realm. "This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson."

Watson hurried over, straightening his coat (which had become dishevelled from the work of lifting Mycroft's cases down from the carriage,) and politely greeted Sir Edward.

"Yes, I've heard of you too, Dr. Watson," Sir Edward said. "Miss Darby, my children's governess, she reads your articles in the _Strand_," (I saw a withered look pass over Holmes's face.) "It was she who suggested I contact Mycroft over this business, and ask him to bring you up here. Shall I show you where it happened, sir?"

"Most certainly," Holmes said, and the two men launched across the courtyard, and disappeared through the front door of the house. Watson and I hastily followed, leaving Mycroft behind with the struggling Mortimer (Mycroft was not of the disposition to hasten anywhere.)

I found myself in a beautiful, Gothic entrance hall, splendidly decorated, as rich houses in the old days used to be, with hand-painted wallpaper, a light plum in colour, with a black, flora pattern. In the middle of the entrance hall (and very much the main feature of the place,) was a wide, beautifully polished staircase of the darkest mahogany, fashioned in a mock Tudor style, which branched off to the left and right at the top, and which was overlooked by a tall, arched window, shrouded on the outside by lush, green creepers. The room was furnished with some very unusual Eastern and African antiques (Sir Edward was obviously a well travelled man,) such as wooden elephants with ivory tusks, and queer, painted masks, some of which resembled human faces, and others the faces of strange, reptilian or lion-like beasts.

Creaking footsteps leading away to the left informed Watson and myself which way to go, and we passed through a nearby door, in to what was obviously the dining room. This was a long, low, darkly panelled room, decorated with all sorts of clearly Russian art – tapestries and bronze sculptures – including, on one wall, at the head of the long dining table, a large portrait of a dark, stern, and beautiful woman, in a rich red gown, with truly enormous skirts, and a lavish, feathered headdress. This was quite obviously the Countess, and, seeing her even in her painted form, I could now quite clearly understand what Mycroft had meant when he had described her as being a 'stormy and dominating character.'

Although somewhat struck by the Countess's arresting portrait (both myself and Watson,) we pressed on through the room, in to the small chamber that was adjacent to it, which seemed to be some sort of study.

"Here we are, Mr. Holmes," Sir Edward said, placing his hand on the frame of a small landscape on the wall. He swung it forwards to reveal a hidden safe, its door bearing no sign of a forced opening – It looked as though Sir Edward really had been careless with the combination.

"This is the safe from which the Tsarina's jewels were stolen?" Holmes said, stepping over to the safe. Sir Edward sighed, and nodded.

Taking out his magnifying glass, Holmes put his face close to the door of the safe, and meticulously inspected it, opening the safe at one point, and placing his head inside it. I heard him inhaling, deeply, and wondered what on earth he was doing.

"Miss Winchester?" he said, suddenly, placing the glass back in his pocket. "I don't suppose you'd have a little talcum powder on you?"

Sir Edward and Watson both frowned as I opened my little beaded bag, and handed Holmes my powder compact.

"And the brush," Holmes said.

Bemused, I handed him the little pouf that went with it, and watched him applying a fine layer of the pale powder to the door of the safe, paying special attention to the combination lock. After a few minutes of doing this, he made a noise of irritation, and handed the powder back to me.

"No recent fingerprints," he sighed. "Our thief was not so careless as to open the safe without wearing gloves. I take it you rarely removed the jewels from the safe, Sir Edward?"

"Very rarely," Sir Edward said with a nod. "They were the most precious thing in our family – the jewels of a Russian Tsarina herself. The last time I took the necklace out was near a year ago, when I gave it to my daughter Eve to wear for her seventeenth birthday. It was a sort of tradition that every woman in the family was to wear the jewels to sit for a portrait with them. My daughter has been painted wearing them, as has my sister and my late wife..."

"What about Lady Ruth?"

The four of us looked up to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. Sir Edward swallowed.

"She was due to wear them in a few days," he said, his hands fidgeting behind his back. "I showed them to her, she was absolutely delighted. Then we received the messenger from the Palace. It was decided that we would move the date of the first sitting forward, so that Ruth would be the last woman of the Strange family to have her portrait done with the jewels. I went to remove them from the safe, and..." All the colour drained from his face.

Mycroft came forward, and patted his friend on the arm, sympathetically.

"It's alright, Edward," he said, soothingly. "I assure you that Sherlock here has never failed to crack a case..."

"Actually, I have failed on a few occasions," Holmes remarked. "The first was the case of Miss Irene Adler and the King of Bohemia..."

"_Never _failed!" Mycroft said, loudly over him.

Sir Edward looked far from reassured.

"Yes...Well, if you'd all like to come through in to the drawing room? Mrs. Potter has prepared lunch for us all, I'm sure you must be quite famished after your journey; but first, I'd like you to meet my family."


	7. Chapter 6

The drawing room of Strange Hall was no less luxurious than any of the other rooms. It was a large, walnut panelled room, with a rounded ceiling, adorned with sweeping, elegantly carved, curved beams. Large, diamond paned windows looked out over the lawn, and through the gently swaying branches of one of the willow trees, dressed with red tartan curtains, and bearing a window seat. An old, magnificently woven tapestry adorned one of the walls, bearing an image of the Virgin and Child, while, on the opposite facing wall, there was a line of gilt-framed portraits. They depicted a series of young women, all of whom wore the same necklace of diamonds and sapphires – the Tsarina's jewels. A few of the portraits I recognised; one was quite obviously Lady Margaret Strange – tall, fair, and graceful, and wearing a beautiful, sky blue dress, the exact same shade as her stunning, star-bright eyes – and the subjects of three others were sat in that very room.

The portrait before that of Lady Margaret's showed a ghostly pale, fairy-like woman, so grey and slight that she looked almost like a whisp of smoke. Her hair was a very pale, yellowish-brown, and pulled back in to a tight knot that gave her thin, rabbit-like face a stretched look, and her sad, forlorn eyes were a light, watery green. The artist had captured the mood of the woman very well, for, as I looked at her now, sat on the red velvet settee in the middle of the room, I felt the same rush of coldness and deep, tragic romanticism that emanated from her portrait. She gazed, wistfully out of the window at nothing in particular, her hands neatly folded in her lap, and I wondered for a moment whether she was perhaps another ghost of the house. A man stood behind her – tall, strongly built, with smooth, dark hair, and an untrimmed moustache, dressed in a severe grey suit and necktie, and anxiously smoking a cigarette. He had a look of Sir Edward about him, so I took him to be Sir Edward's younger brother, Thomas, and the woman on the settee his wife, Alice. The name suited her for some reason.

Across the room, staring deeply in to a large mirror, with her hands gripping either side of it, was a very different woman. Her portrait was also on the wall, before that of Alice Strange's, and the artist had done well to capture the defiant light in her dark eyes. They were quite petrifying – like Medusa's, they seemed almost capable of turning anyone who came under their gaze in to stone – and were quite a contrast to the rest of her face, which was elegant and lovely. Her lips, however, were twisted in to an angry expression, and I almost fancied that she was trying to shatter the mirror simply by glaring at it. She was very darkly dressed, wearing a jacket and skirts of jet black satin, with a cameo brooch pinned to the throat of her white, lace-trimmed blouse, and her glossy, dark hair was piled up in to a beehive on her head. The silver signet ring on her right hand, bearing the symbol of the Eye in the Pyramid, told me that she was Miss Clara Strange, the spiritualist.

Perched on the settee beside Alice Strange was a young girl of about seventeen, quietly working on a piece of embroidery. This was undoubtedly Eve Strange, Sir Edward's daughter, and who was the subject of the very last portrait in the line on the wall. She was a rather plain girl, but had something about her which suggested that she would blossom later on in life in to a beautiful young woman. Her dark blonde curls had been dressed with care, and her lavender-coloured gown was scrupulously clean, which suggested she took great pride in her appearance. The serene expression which adorned her lightly freckled face and the beauty of her posture was the very picture of ladyhood – very unlike the woman who was pacing up and down on the other side of the room, earning a few disapproving and almost hateful looks from Eve.

The woman who was pacing, frantically up and down, threatening to wear through the red Turkish rug that was on the floor, could only have been Lady Ruth Strange. To say that she surprised me would have been an immense understatement. Startlingly different from Sir Edward's first wife, the fair, angelic Lady Margaret, Lady Ruth seemed more akin to a sensual Greek goddess – Her complexion was a soft, dusky brown, and her thick, lustrous curls were as dark as a raven, and her eyes as black as night. She was dressed in a gown of beautiful, crimson satin, trimmed with black lace, and with a black lace bow beneath the collar. Though beautiful and immaculately presented, her beauty seemed to be like that of a flickering, amber flame – reckless and almost dangerous – and there was certainly spirit in the way she flounced, hotly up and down the room, anxiously flapping her hands.

"Edward!" she cried, rushing up to her husband as the five of us (Holmes, Watson, Mycroft, Sir Edward and I,) entered the room. "What's happening? Have you found it yet? Oh God, I can't bear this a moment longer!"

"Don't make yourself upset, Ruth my dear," Sir Edward said, comforting the woman. "Mr. Holmes has just arrived; you remember, the detective I was telling you about? Mr. Holmes," he said, turning to Holmes and presenting the woman, "I'd like you to meet my wife, Lady Ruth Strange. You'll have to excuse her, she's quite upset by all this."

"It's dreadful!" Lady Ruth gasped, clutching at a lace handkerchief as she shook Holmes's hand. "To think that while we were all asleep, some dreadful wraith slipped in to the house, and stole my precious gems..."

"_Your _precious gems?" the young Eve burst out from the settee; then, realising that she had let her composure slip, her face flushed with embarrassment, and she went back to her embroidery.

"Pray, Lady Strange?" Holmes said, drawing attention away from Eve's outburst. "You do not think it was someone in the household who stole the jewels?"

Lady Ruth's magnificent eyes widened.

"No, I hadn't thought for a moment..." She glanced, wildly around the room, as though searching for the jewel thief amongst the party gathered there. "You mean to say that it was a member of the family? _My _family?"

"Or one of the servants, yes," Holmes said with a nod. "The safe was not forced open, so the thief must have known the combination, making a member of the household a more likely suspect." His cold, calculating eyes slowly swept the room, examining the astonished faces before him.

Lady Ruth staggered back from Holmes, clutching at her chest. She began panting, heavily, and swayed, dangerously on the spot, before stumbling towards the settee. Mrs. Strange quickly stood up to make room for her, and Eve quietly put down her embroidery, and moved across the room, with a very noticeable disgusted expression on her face. Mr. Strange and Miss Strange exchanged weary glances across the room, which Sir Edward (though he clearly noticed them,) steadfastly ignored, while he tended to his stricken wife. It was evident that this sort of hysterical behaviour was common from Lady Ruth. From my point of view (though I was not exactly an accomplished lady myself,) it was rather shameful.

"It's alright, darling," Sir Edward said, while his wife remained faint on the sofa. "Clara, fetch Miss Darby and ask her for some smelling salts, would you?"

"Really, Eddie, there's no need!" Miss Strange said, frostily, glaring at Lady Ruth.

"I think...it would be most appreciated," said Lady Ruth, still gasping for breath. "And a glass of water...if you please, Clara?"

Biting her lip, Miss Strange turned and stalked out of the room, leaving a trail of coldness behind her that one could almost feel in the air (That was the impression that the recently divorced Miss Clara Strange so distinctly left on people – she was a pillar of ice, a Snow Queen with cold, blue blood flowing through her veins – and her presence would continue to chill me throughout our visit.)

The four of us exchanged looks as the melodramatic Lady Ruth continued her performance on the settee. I could see in Holmes's face that he had no time or sympathy for the lady (he had given me the same sort of look upon my arrival in Baker Street,) and found her just as silly as I did. Watson was also looking noticeably uncomfortable, and Mycroft rather weary (His withering look alerted me to the fact that, yes, there _was_ some resemblance between the two Holmes brothers after all.) A few minutes later, Miss Strange walked, silently back in to the room, followed by another woman who I took to be Miss Anna Darby, the governess, who was carrying a bottle of smelling salts and a glass of water.

Had I been asked to conjure up a picture of a typical governess in my mind, the end result would have been a perfect depiction of Miss Darby. She was a sweet, motherly looking lady of around twenty seven or twenty eight or so, with soft, mouse-brown hair, and mouse eyes, and seemed to have a touch of sunshine about her face. She was somewhat overly tall, but carried around with her an aura of dignity and intelligence, and dressed in a quiet, prim fashion, with a green tweed jacket and skirts, and a pale green blouse, with a string of pearls. She handed the bottle of smelling salts to Lady Ruth, who snatched them, and began inhaling, deeply, and then retreated back to a quiet part of the room, a stark contrast of calmness and serenity next to Lady Ruth's flapping and fussing.

After a few sips of water, and extensive inhaling of the smelling salts, Lady Ruth stood up with the help of her husband, and said, apologetically (but still with a high sense of drama,) "I do beg your pardon. This whole thing has been such a shock to me. You do know that I was due to have my portrait painted with the jewels not two days from now?"

"Yes, your husband informed us, Lady Strange," Mycroft said, stifling a yawn (which, thankfully, Lady Ruth did not appear to notice.)

"No doubt someone wished to ruin my happiness. Pray, I understand that this gentleman here is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but I haven't yet been introduced to the rest of you?"

"Oh, of course," Sir Edward said, waving us forward. "I've told you of Mycroft of course, my dear – He is Mr. Holmes's brother, and very kindly agreed to obtain his help for us. This is Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes's colleague – Mr. _Sherlock _Holmes's colleague, that is – and this is Miss Harriett Winchester of America – She is Mycroft's cousin. I think you're familiar with everyone already, Mycroft, save my darling Ruth here; but, Dr. Watson and Miss Winchester, if I may introduce you to my wife, Lady Ruth; my brother and sister, Mr. Thomas and Miss Clara Strange; my sister-in-law, Alice, Thomas's wife; my daughter Eve, and her governess, Miss Anna Darby, who we also consider a part of our family."

"You have a son aswell I understand, Sir Edward?" Watson remarked, conversationally.

"Yes, little Adam. A dear little boy, seven years old. Where is he at the moment, Miss Darby?" Sir Edward said, turning to the governess.

"In the nursery, sir, playing with the dog." (Miss Darby had a somewhat musical quality to her voice, I noticed.)

"He doesn't seem worried at all?"

"Not in the least, sir."

"Good. Be sure to bring him down this evening before dinner, so that I can say goodnight to him. Well, Mr. Holmes, how do you wish to proceed?"

Holmes, gazing rather distractedly before him, slowly took his cigarette case from his pocket, and lit a cigarette. He puffed, thoughtfully on the tobacco for a moment, carelessly breathing out streams of white smoke, before he finally replied.

"I should like to interview each of you in turn before lunch," he said to Sir Edward. "I trust you know just when this theft took place?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Holmes. I opened the safe on the morning of the 5th when I received the letter from the Palace – The gems were still there. When I went to fetch them the next morning, however, to give them a polish before Ruth's sitting, the safe was empty."

"Then the theft must have taken place on the night of the 5th April?"

"No question."

"And it must undoubtedly have been someone within the household, seeing as the safe was not forced, the house not broken in to, and you do not keep the combination a secret from your family or servants?"

"But one of the family!" Lady Ruth protested. "Who within my own family would wish to upset me so?"

Glancing about the room at the sea of quietly loathing faces that were turned to her, I rather thought everyone.

"It is not so devastating as you might think, Lady Strange," Holmes said, leaning on his cane. "If the thief is indeed a member of the household, then it is likely that the gems will still be here somewhere."

Lady Ruth sat up with a lurch.

"Really?" She scanned the room, intently, her eyes filled with suspicion and accusation.

"Might you have a room where we could conduct our interviews privately, Sir Edward?" Holmes asked.

"The library is just through there."

"Very good. In that case, I shall start with you."


	8. Chapter 7

**Note from Agatha: This is a looooooong chapter. You have been warned... ;)**

**

* * *

**I had never felt so dramatic in all my young life. Holmes, Watson, Mycroft and I sat, almost as the Magistrates of a court, behind a thick-legged oak table in the library of Strange Hall. The long, narrow room looked more like a church or a monastery than a library, with bare, grey stone walls, a polished oak floor that creaked, painfully as one crossed it, a few Gothic, iron candelabras, and a pair of arched, diamond panelled windows, that threw severe and atmospheric, dust-filled beams of sunlight in to the middle of the darkened room. Upon entering, I half expected to see an altar and a group of hooded, chanting monks gathered in the space aswell – but instead there were high, elaborately carved bookcases, lined with beautiful old books, bound in jewel-coloured leathers, and arranged almost as a maze in the rather narrow space, and a large, solitary vase of lilies placed on a stone ledge.

On the other side of our Magistrates table, framed in the wide, stone doorway, sat Sir Edward Strange, who was rather nervously smoking a briar pipe. The toxic cloud filled the close atmosphere, and what made it worse was the fact that Holmes was beginning to go through a steady stream of cigarettes again. My eyes watered through the haze, and I suppressed a few embarrassing coughs as Holmes pressed on with the interview of Sir Edward.

"The night of the 5th, Sir Edward, the night of the theft," he said, steepleing his fingers, and peering over them at Sir Edward with his penetrating eyes; "Tell us about it."

Sir Edward shifted a little in his chair (more out of discomfort than anxiousness I fancy, as the oak chairs of the library were rather hard, and I had abandoned mine in favour of leaning against a nearby bookcase.)

"There isn't much to tell, Mr. Holmes," he said, frowning with concentration as he puffed on his pipe. "It was a very ordinary night, I can't think of any..."

"Please, I beg of you," Holmes interrupted, waving his hands, enigmatically, "the slightest detail may be of the greatest importance. Tell us everything you remember of that night, exactly as you remember it."

Sir Edward inhaled, deeply from his pipe, his eyes filled with the determination of a man who realises he holds great responsibility.

"Well, at six o'clock we all came down to dinner, as usual. I'd been talking with Ruth about the Tsarina's gems and the letter from the Palace...She was a little upset about it, you see," he added, hesitantly. "She'd fallen in love with the jewels when I'd shown them to her for the first time, and she wanted to keep them. But she understood, once I'd explained to her how important it was that the jewels were returned to Russia. Shortly before dinner, I went to see to Adam in the nursery, and he told me..." He struggled with his words, and came to a halting pause.

"Told you what, Sir Edward?" Holmes pressed. Sir Edward's eyes saddened, and he puffed a little on his pipe, and shook his head.

"He told me he'd seen his mother again," he said. Watson and I looked at each other, while Holmes merely turned his eyes heavenward.

"Lady Margaret?" Mycroft said with a frown, his hand pausing as he reached for his snuffbox. Sir Edward gave a weary nod.

"He doesn't remember her, you see," he said, sadly. "Margaret died when Adam was only two – I believe he feels detached from her. That's why he pretends she's still here. She acts as his imaginary playmate, I suppose."

"The boy talks to her?" Watson said, leaning forwards in an intrigued manner. "He interacts with her, plays with her?"

"Not exactly," Sir Edward said. "He says he sees her out of his window at night, carrying a lantern. Miss Darby has had trouble putting him to bed because he's so eager to keep watch for her. Once he even left his room, and claimed that he saw her in the house, when he looked down in to the hall through the banisters. I don't like it when he says things like that," he said, a strained look coming to his face. "Margaret was a pure soul, a sweet soul – God wouldn't have sent her in to purgatory. And we pray for her every day in chapel, even Ruth. They were very good friends when they were young girls, you see..."

"How would Adam recognise his mother, Edward," Mycroft asked, curiously, "if he has no memories of her?" Sir Edward looked at Mycroft, incredulously.

"From her portrait, of course," he said, surprised. "And from her photograph – he and Eve each have a locket which I gave them, containing Margaret's picture. Honestly Mycroft, you don't think that dear Margaret is really..?"

"Of course not, Sir Edward," said Holmes, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It is quite absurd." Although I must admit, even I was beginning to feel a chill run down my spine. Young Adam Strange apparently saw his dead mother crossing the grounds of Strange Hall at night...just like the innkeeper and his son in Thorne Acre...

"Please continue, Sir Edward," said Holmes, apparently the only person in the room who had not been disturbed by Adam's tales.

"Well, after I left the nursery, I came down with Miss Darby, and met Ruth at the bottom of the stairs."

"Was anyone else downstairs?" Holmes asked. Sir Edward thought for a moment.

"Mrs. Potter was, obviously, she was in the kitchen. So was Florence, our new kitchen maid – I'm afraid Mrs. Potter has been making some complaints about her. Mortimer was in the dining room when we sat down, I remember...I don't know where George was..."

"What about your brother, Mr. Thomas Strange?"

"Oh yes, he came out of the drawing room, I remember," Sir Edward replied, "he said he couldn't find Alice. She and Clara were a little late for dinner, they came downstairs about ten minutes later saying that Clara had found a tear in her dress. Alice offered to sew it back up. Eve came down shortly before them."

"Very good," said Holmes. "When you sat down to dinner in the dining room, was the door to your study as it should have been?"

"Oh yes, it was closed. It's always closed."

"Was it locked?"

"No."

Holmes tutted, severely, but I saw Mycroft discreetly nudge him under the table.

"After dinner," Holmes continued, responding to his brother's warning, "what occurred then?"

"Mortimer and Florence cleared the table, and Thomas and I made for the parlour to smoke some cigars, while the women went to the drawing room."

"Straight away?" Holmes asked, looking at Sir Edward, keenly. "No pauses? You saw everyone leave the dining room for either the parlour or the drawing room?"

Sir Edward shifted, this time, I could see, out of anxiousness.

"Not quite," he said, hesitantly. "Eve wanted to borrow some pencils from my study so that she could sketch Clara. She's very fond of her."

Holmes looked up, sharply, as did myself and Watson (I could not quite see through the plumes of tobacco smoke, but I fancied that Mycroft had fallen asleep, or was at least drifting towards sleep.)

"Your daughter entered your study?" Holmes said.

"Yes," Sir Edward said, tensely; "With my permission first."

"Did she close the door behind her?"

"No, she left it ajar. She was only there for a minute or so – less, even – and I was stood at the door the whole time. She did not go near the safe."

"You're quite sure?"

"Yes. Quite sure."

"You were watching her the entire time?"

Sir Edward's face reddened, and he seemed to be chewing on his tongue. Finally, he brought his hand down with a passionate crash on to the table.

"God damn it!" he cried. "My daughter is not a thief, Mr. Holmes!" Quickly composing himself, he produced a rosary from his coat pocket, and began fondling, anxiously with the beads. There was a small, startled silence in the library.

"Excuse me, Sir Edward," Holmes said, apologetically. "I did not mean to suggest so."

"I apologise for my outburst, Mr. Holmes," Sir Edward said, tensely, pressing the rosary to his lips so forcibly that the beads left their marks on the skin around his mouth. "But you must take my word for it, Eve is a good Christian girl – my goodness, she's even created a sampler of the Ten Commandments! She knows that stealing is a sin, and sinning is abhorrent to her."

"Perhaps she went to Confession and had her sin absolved?" I muttered to the floor. Sir Edward looked up, sharply.

"I beg your pardon?"

"After your daughter left your study," Holmes interjected, shooting me a stern glance, "she left for the drawing room with Miss Strange, Mrs. Strange, Miss Darby, and your wife, while Mr. Strange and yourself retired to the parlour, is that correct?"

"That's right."

"And you stayed there for how long?"

"About an hour, I should say."

"And the ladies stayed in the drawing room for the same amount of time, I presume?"

Sir Edward pursed his lips, and moved in his chair again. Holmes sighed.

"Sir Edward, if you insist on being this reluctant with all of your information..."

"They came in to the parlour!" Sir Edward burst out. I frowned, and exchanged glances with an equally confused looking Holmes and Watson, wondering why Sir Edward had wanted to hide this fact.

"Why?" Holmes queried. Sir Edward clutched at his rosary.

"They came in to the parlour when they heard Thomas and I arguing," he said.

Mycroft's head at last jerked up, and I saw that he was fully awake again.

"And why were you arguing with Thomas, Edward?" he asked. "Come now, you can tell us. We won't be too quick to judge your brother, I promise you."

Sir Edward sighed, and took a puff of tobacco.

"That's the problem," he said, shaking his head. "I don't want to think badly of Thomas, but I...Well, he had ample reason to steal the gems." The four of us behind the table exchanged intrigued looks.

"Indeed?" Holmes said, curiously. "Why so?"

"It seems he's gotten himself in to a bit of money trouble," Sir Edward explained. "That was the reason for our argument. I've given him allowances time and again, but I was beginning to see that Thomas had to take responsibility for his own problems. I told him I wasn't going to give him any more money. He thought I was being unreasonable, seeing as I gave so much charity to Clara and to poor strangers I didn't know. I'm afraid we had a terrible row, and the noise was enough to bring the ladies in, and break us up. Thomas was angry, I don't know what he would have done..."

"Where is the parlour, Sir Edward?" Holmes asked suddenly.

"Next to the dining room. There is a connecting door."

"So upon hearing the noise of the fight, your sister, your daughter, Mrs. Strange, Miss Darby and your wife would all have run through the dining room in order to get to the parlour, and would have come close to the door of your study?"

"That's true, Mr. Holmes, but the gems could easily have been taken in the middle of the night aswell, when we were all asleep."

Holmes thought, deeply for a moment, the smiled and said, "Thank you, Sir Edward, that will be all. Would you be so kind as to send Mr. Strange in after you? I believe we shall have to discuss this matter with him also."

"Of course," Sir Edward said, standing up.

"And, to save time, would you also send in Mrs. Strange, so that we might interview them together?"

Sir Edward nodded, and departed from the library. A minute later, in walked Thomas Strange – the taller, slightly darker, and more robust looking version of Sir Edward, and with a more strict rather than handsome cast of face – closely followed by his wife, the meek and mild-mannered Alice.

"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Strange," Mycroft said, pleasantly, heaving himself up in order to shake their hands, while Holmes sat in silent thought, his chin resting on his hands. "Do sit down. We wish to ask you a few questions, if it does not inconvenience you?"

"This whole thing is inconvenient," Mr. Strange said, although his tone was more moody than angry, and he sat down with the air of a sulking child. "I suppose Eddie has already convinced you that it was I who stole the necklace, because of my money issues?"

"Thomas, please!" Mrs. Strange protested, quietly.

"We never jump to conclusion, Mr. Strange," Holmes said, laying his hands on the table. "And I was aware of your money issues before your brother even mentioned them, however I can see that you are a frank and honest man, and that gives me confidence in you."

Beside Holmes, I saw Watson do a double take, and his reaction was equal to my own surprise. Mr. Thomas Strange, on the other hand, seemed rather more amused, and leaned back in his chair with a smile.

"I see," he said, observing Holmes. "That is an example of the deductive powers that you are so famous for, I suppose? Well, how did you know about my money problems then?"

"You're an accountant, Mr. Strange," Mycroft said, just as Holmes opened his mouth to reply; "That much we know already. However, the ink stain upon your right little finger, the smooth patch on the left sleeve of your jacket where you have been leaning on a desk, the presence of pencils and pens in your breast pocket, even when you are away visiting your brother, and your rather tired looking appearance, all show that you have been working overtime of late. Also, Mrs. Strange, if I may say so," he added, turning to the woman, "the lace you wear about your shoulders is old, and slightly stained. You have not been able to replace it."

Alice Strange ducked her head, and her face flushed a little. Mr. Strange, meanwhile, had raised one, intrigued eyebrow.

"Well," he said, simply. "That's rather good. Well, Mr. Holmes – and Mr. Holmes – what questions do you have to ask me?"

"We merely wish to know your recollections of the night of the 5th April," Holmes said, quickly, glancing at Mycroft; "The night of the theft of the Tsarina's jewels."

"Certainly," Mr. Strange said, sitting forwards in his seat. "I'm a frank and honest man, as you said Mr. Holmes. Well, on the night of the 5th we all sat down to dinner at about a quarter past six. Alice and I dressed for dinner in our room, and Alice went to borrow a handkerchief from Clara down the hall, I believe."

"Is that true, Mrs. Strange?" Holmes asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Strange said with a nod. "I went to Clara's room to ask for a handkerchief, and she told me she had a tear in her dress. She asked me to fix it. It made us a little late for dinner."

"In the meantime, Mr. Strange," Holmes said, turning back to the gentleman, "you went downstairs?"

"Yes, I was looking for Alice here," Mr. Strange said, with a careless gesture to his wife.

"Did you look for her in the dining room?"

"No, I looked in the drawing room, and then had a quick look in here," Mr. Strange replied. "I thought she might have come downstairs already. When I went back out in to the hall, Eddie, Ruth, Eve and Miss Darby were all at the bottom of the stairs, and I waited with them until Alice and Clara came down the stairs a few minutes later."

"Did you notice anyone else when you came downstairs, Mr. Strange?" Holmes asked.

"No, there was no one that I saw. Mortimer was already in the dining room when we went in, so he must have been downstairs, but I didn't see him."

"Ah, well," said Holmes, resting his chin on his hands. "After dinner then, you and Sir Edward smoked cigars in the parlour next to the dining room?"

"Yes, that's where the fight broke out. I needed money – I'm always in need of money, I'm afraid – and my brother is a rich man, who regularly donates large sums to the poor, and gives shelter to our divorced sister, despite his disapproval of divorce. He will not, however, grant money to his own brother in his time of need."

"And you were angry?" Mycroft asked, peering at the man with his small, pale eyes. Mr. Strange smiled a dry smile.

"Naturally," he said. "But I think you'll find that it's Eddie who has the worse temper. He hides it behind all that Catholic nonsense, you see, buries it behind repentance and prayer in rich churches full of fancy incense and gilded statues. _'Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image', _that's all I can say for it! The girls came rushing in when they heard Eddie fling the ashtray at me."

Mycroft (whose head had begun to droop again,) looked up in surprise, and Watson turned to me with an equally astonished look.

"Were you hurt?" asked Holmes, seemingly completely unaffected by the revelation.

"No," Mr. Strange said. "Truth be told, I was spoiling for a fight. I wouldn't perform any violence in front of ladies, however, particularly not my own wife, so I walked away. And that's all I can really tell you, Mr. Holmes."

"How did you occupy yourselves whilst you were in the drawing room, Mrs. Strange?" Holmes asked, turning to the lady. Mrs. Strange started a little in her seat.

"I read by the fire," she said, composing herself. "Wilde, actually, _'Ravenna'_, one of my favourites. Miss Darby was reading too, I think a copy of _'Romeo and Juliet' _- she's fond of Skakespeare, she's told me before. Eve was sketching Clara on the window seat – she's a very artistic girl – and Ruth was...Well, Ruth was talking aloud about this and that, but I'm afraid to say we weren't listening."

"I'm sure her conversation wouldn't have enlightened you very much," Mr. Strange muttered. Lady Ruth's unpopularity with most of the family was becoming ever more evident.

"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Strange, you have been most helpful," Holmes said, and with a wave of his hand, he dismissed them from the library. Watson keenly watched them go, and then turned to Holmes.

"Well, Holmes? What do you think?" he asked.

I leaned forward to listen as Holmes stroked his chin, thoughtfully.

"I think," Holmes said, standing up, "that we should all adjourn for lunch."


	9. Chapter 8

I emerged from the library somewhat like a drowning person emerging from the depths of a lake, and gulped in the clean air. The poisonous atmosphere created by the tobacco smoke had not only been choking me, but had made the room unbearably warm and still, and I was feeling dizzy, and not a little sick. Lunch would not go down well, I fancied.

"I must thank you, Brother Mine," I heard Holmes whisper, as he and Mycroft strolled side by side towards the dining room. "I sense that this is shaping up to be a rather intriguing case. There are secrets in this unhappy house – You can feel it in the very air!"

"Indeed, Holmes," Watson muttered behind them, and I saw that he was busily scribbling things down in his notebook. "This will make a wonderful addition to my writings, particularly if we are to find any evidence of a ghost..."

"Unfortunately, Dr. Watson," Mycroft whispered over his shoulder, "the certain powers that be wish for you to refrain from publishing any facts about this case at present. The restriction may be lifted sometime in the future, but I am afraid that, with things as they are, it is quite impossible for you to add this little adventure to Sherlock's memoirs at the moment. You quite understand?"

Watson looked thoroughly deflated.

"Yes, of course," he sighed, and deposited his notebook back in his jacket pocket (As the world will know, Watson was never destined to write about the Strange Hall case – it was at Holmes's express request that he did not, for there was a certain danger involved at the time that I shall, one day, explain here in my writings – and he is presently too ill to write any more about his great friend. So it would seem as though the pen has been passed on to me.)

"I am very curious to see how this family interact with each other," Holmes said, although it was not clear who he was addressing (I developed a theory over the years that Holmes had somehow managed to split his mind in two, so that he might voice thoughts with one half, while the other half listened to them.) "There are underlying suspicions and mistrust – If we can determine just who the family suspect the most, it may lead us to the thief."

"That shouldn't take too much effort!" I said, but I spluttered in to my handkerchief as I did so. "Didn't you see the filthy looks they were giving Lady Ruth?"

"Are you alright, Miss Winchester?" Watson asked with concern.

"It's those damn cigarettes of yours, Sherlock!" Mycroft huffed, helping himself to a large pinch of snuff. "You really do insist on smoking the most abominable blends!"

"I have never understood your aversion to tobacco, Brother Mine," Holmes said, observing Mycroft with a cold eye. "It is clarifying to the mind, and is rather effective, I am told, in the area of weight loss, which I believe would be extremely beneficial to you..."

"Hurry up, we'll be late for lunch!" I said, urging Holmes and Mycroft anxiously towards the dining room, as I could feel the tension building.

We took our places around the table in the eerily quiet dining room, and I saw that Holmes instantly began observing the Strange family. Even their positions around the dining table showed the relationships between them. Sir Edward, as the head of the household, obviously sat at the head of the table, beneath the imposing portrait of the Countess. On either side of him were his wife, Lady Ruth, and his daughter, Eve, both seemingly competing over who should be nearest to him. Next to Eve, obviously wanting to keep a close eye on her charge, was Miss Darby, who gazed, anxiously at the situation between Lady Ruth and Eve (The thunderous atmosphere that lay between them was painfully obvious, although Lady Ruth seemed to be doing her best to smile.)

On the other side of Miss Darby sat Mrs. Strange, physically and symbolically, it seemed, separated from her husband by the width of the table. Miss Strange, who took the chair next to Mrs. Strange, sat, elegantly upright in her seat, her eyes icily regarding the opposite wall (or was it her brother that they were fixed upon?) Eventually, the thick silence was broken by the slow and eerie Mortimer entering the room with the dining cart, followed by a woman of maturing years, dressed completely in black, with heavy streaks of grey running through her toffee-coloured hair, and a nose shaped rather like the beak of a crow.

"Good afternoon, Ethel," Sir Edward said, politely, although she did not seem a very approachable person. "I don't believe you've met our guests, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and Miss Winchester?"

Ethel Potter turned to us with eyes like deep green tunnels, surveyed the four of us for a moment, and then bowed, severely.

"How do you do, sirs? And miss," she added, looking at me.

"So, Ethel," Sir Edward continued, as Mortimer began ladling a lumpy red soup in to our bowls; "What have you prepared for us?"

"Hopefully something better than last time," Lady Ruth muttered. Mrs. Potter shot her a glare.

"Tomato and potato soup, sir," she said, proudly. "And Allspice bread. Sir," she added, "you haven't by any chance had the silverware sent away for cleaning, have you?"

"No, Ethel," Sir Edward said with a frown, tasting his soup. "If I wanted the silver polished, I'd ask Mortimer to do it. Why?"

An anxious look came to Mrs. Potter's witch-like face.

"It's missing from the cupboard, sir," she said, wringing her dishpan hands together. "I've looked all over the kitchen, and I can't find it." Sir Edward dropped his spoon.

"All of it?" he cried in horror. "Good God, are you certain?"

"I've checked myself, sir," Mortimer said, in his slow, dulcet tones. "Mrs. Potter is quite right, all the silverware is missing." Stunned glances were exchanged around the table.

"It must have been taken the night the necklace was snatched," Miss Darby said. "Whoever it was robbed us of our silver too!"

"Not...Not Grandmother's silverware?" Sir Edward said suddenly, looking up. "That's not gone too, is it?"

"No sir, just the everyday silverware that was in the kitchen,"" Mortimer replied.

"Thank God," Sir Edward leaned back in his chair with a relived sigh. "Well, I suppose we'll have to use that for dinner tonight."

"You can't!" Miss Strange cried, suddenly, dropping her spoon with a clatter.

"Oh Clara, please!" Mr. Strange said with a snort.

"What's wrong with the Countess's silverware?" I asked, curiously, taking a spoonful of tomato and potato soup (Lady Ruth's judgement on Mrs. Potter's cooking was rather harsh, I thought, as the soup was actually delicious.)

"Oh, it's cursed!" Eve said, delightedly, smiling at me from across the table.

"Eve, such things aren't to be taken lightly!" Miss Strange said, sternly. "There is nothing fun or amusing about the spirit world! It must be treated with respect!"

"What is this so-called curse, Miss Strange?" Holmes asked, curiously, looking down the table at Eve. Eve glanced, uncertainly at Clara Strange, who merely shook her head, and ripped off a corner of the Allspice loaf.

"It was ever since the Countess Maria came here from Russia," Eve began, pointing to the Countess's portrait. "People accused her of stealing the Tsarina's jewels, and it was said she stole the silver too. In fact, it was rumoured that she was a notorious thief, and that nearly everything she owned she had stolen..."

"Ridiculous!" Sir Edward snorted, contemptuously.

"...After her death, all the stolen objects became cursed because of the Countess's sins. And it's _said_," (Eve's blue eyes were positively sparkling at this point,) "that if group of thirteen ever use the silverware to dine with, the first person to leave the table will die."

An eerie silence followed. Then, Holmes gave a short, sharp bark of laughter (Holmes was quite skilled at using his laugh in such a way that could truly wound a person.) Eve bowed her head in embarrassment, and Miss Strange gave Holmes one of her icy glares from across the table. Mr. Strange, however, nodded, approvingly at Holmes, and I must admit that I myself was struggling to contain my laughter at Eve's story. A cursed silver service that could kill a person? It sounded like an absurd joke – a fairytale plucked from one of the modern horror books (and not a very good one at that.)

After our light lunch (which, although very pleasant, I was unfortunately unable to eat much of, due to the nauseating effect of Holmes's cigarettes,) Holmes suggested that we carry on with our interviewing of the Strange family, and Lady Ruth eagerly threw herself forward as the next to be spoken to (The gathering around the table all exchanged weary looks.) As I rose out of my chair, however, a feeling of dizziness washed over me, and, with a grey mist swirling before my eyes, I sat back down.

"Are you alright, miss?" Mrs. Potter asked, placing a hand on my shoulder, and peering in to my face. "You look a bit sickly."

"Probably something to do with your soup, Ethel," Lady Ruth said, coldly, from across the room.

"No no, it's a headache, that's all," I said (I did not say what it had been caused by, but I saw Watson and Mycroft looking, accusingly at Holmes, while he steadfastly looked ahead and ignored them.)

"I've got a bit of a headache too, if I'm honest," Miss Darby said, placing a hand to her forehead. "There's an awful smell in here, it's quite sickening." (Again, Watson and Mycroft treated Holmes to scolding glances.)

"Feeling dizzy at all, miss?" Mrs. Potter asked me.

"Yes, actually."

"Well, I've got just the thing to clear that up. Mistletoe tea – A bit of a miraculous plant, mistletoe, I've used it to treat my arthritis aswell. I'll make you a cup too, Miss Darby. Just let me find that lump of a girl..._Florence!_"

A young, apple-cheeked servant girl of around twenty one years of age came running through from the kitchen, nearly tripping on the carpet as she went.

"Yes, Mrs. Potter?" she asked in a sugary voice.

"Bring in some mistletoe from the kitchen garden, and brew the leaves for some tea for Miss Darby and Miss Winchester here, would you? The recipe's in the black pot by the fireplace, where I keep all the others."

"Yes, Mrs. Potter," the rather awkward girl said with a curtsey, and disappeared back in to the kitchen. Sir Edward chuckled.

"Ethel here is very well learned in herbal medicines," he explained. "She was marvellous helping dear Margaret just before she...well..."

"That's quite enough, Eddie dear," Lady Ruth said, almost sternly, taking her husband's arm. "You mustn't talk about such morbid subjects like this."

I thought I saw a flicker of rage pass across Eve Strange's face.

As Holmes, Watson, Mycroft and I filed back in to the library, joined by a very excitable Lady Ruth, I nursed the cup of steaming, honey-coloured liquid in my hands. It had a peculiar, bitter sweet taste, which, although certainly not unpleasant, could only be managed one sip at a time. I sat myself down on one of the hard, oak chairs, and prepared myself for a tale of high drama and melodramatic gasps from Lady Ruth.

"Now, Lady Strange," Holmes said, a little wearily; "If you would just kindly tell us..?"

"It's all to do with me, Mr. Holmes!" Lady Ruth launched in to her spectacular monologue. "It's been building now, for months and months, and I didn't want to think it was one of the family...But I suppose it must have been...It's all a great conspiracy, bent on ruining my happiness, or driving me mad, or some such. I can't stand it! It all began about two months ago, I would say..."

"Pardon me, Lady Strange?" interrupted Mycroft (Holmes had his head in his hand, and apparently could not say anything.) "We only wish to know of your recollection of the night of the theft of the jewels. How is two months ago relevant?" Lady Ruth looked quite taken aback.

"Why, that's when it all began, Mr. Holmes!" she said. "That's when this whole business of someone snatching my jewels began!" We all looked at each other.

"Do you mean to say that other gems have been taken from the house, Lady Strange?" Mycroft asked her.

"Oh yes, most certainly!" Lady Ruth said, enthusiastically. "Over the past two months, several pieces of jewellery of mine have gone missing. My diamond bracelet, my opal crucifix, my Dearest ring...Edward thinks I've just mislaid them, but I know, I _know _that someone has been taking them! And now they've culminated their horrible joke with the theft of my precious Tsarina necklace..."

"I'm afraid the necklace does not belong to you, Lady Strange," Holmes said, rather irritably, looking up. "It belongs to the Russian Imperial Family, and that is to whom it shall be returned once it is found. Now, the actual night of the theft?"

Lady Ruth began to describe the night in question with much head shaking and flailing of arms (as seemed characteristic of her,) but I'm afraid that I cannot recall her actual words. Indeed, all that happened next in the library is just a sickening blur, but I shall do my best to remember it.

I had become conscious, halfway through the interview, that, although my headache and dizziness had now cleared, it had been replaced by an unsettling pain in my stomach. At first, I confused this with the ever-present twinge in my side (a reminder of my gunshot wound,) but it soon developed in to a very clear, burning, hideous stomach cramp, that was quite separate to my bullet wound. I gave a cry of pain.

"Miss Winchester, are you alright?" I heard Watson asking in the distance.

A wave of utter nausea washed over me, and my limbs suddenly seemed to turn to water. What's more, there was a sickening movement in my bowels, and I felt as though I were filled with a putrid black substance that was drowning me from the inside. As I fell from my chair, and my teacup shattered on the floor, it did not take me long to realise that I had been poisoned.


	10. Chapter 9

I suddenly found myself being pulled across the library floor, and in to the drawing room, where the Strange family all looked down at me in horror and confusion. Looking up from my agony, I saw Holmes storm over to Mrs. Potter, and yank the woman forwards by her arm.

"I take it this is your doing?" he roared, pointing a trembling finger to where I lay writhing on the floor, while Dr. Watson knelt down to examine me.

Mrs. Potter's eyes were wide with horror, and she fell to her knees beside me (despite how painful the action must have been for a woman of her years,) and suddenly grew red with anger.

"That stupid girl!" she spat, standing up, and turning to Sir Edward. "She's made the tea too strong! Sir, I've complained about her to you before, she is as useless as she is clumsy, and as clumsy as she is naive!.."

It was at this moment that my stomach gave an unsettling jolt, my throat tightened, and I interrupted Mrs. Potter's rant by vomiting over the floor. Lady Ruth gave a disgusted scream.

"Enough!" Watson boomed. "I think I have some polyethylene glycol solution in my bag, that should be enough to flush out the poison."

"Oh, don't worry sir, it's not fatal..." Mrs. Potter began.

"I don't _care _if it is not fatal, Mrs. Potter!" Holmes thundered back at her. "The fact is that Miss Winchester is in a very delicate state – She has not long received a very serious injury! And now that either you or your useless kitchen girl, whoever is to blame, has most likely damaged her recovery, I am of a mind to abandon this case forthwith!"

Surprise overcame pain for a moment, and I looked up at Holmes, stunned. Everyone in the drawing room was regarding him with terrified eyes, even Watson, who it seemed was unused to seeing Holmes in the throes of violent emotion. Mycroft also looked surprised, but his expression was mingled with curiosity, and I saw him glance down at me, thoughtfully.

"I...I'm ever so sorry, sir," Mrs. Potter said, meekly. "The poison will clear up on its own, I promise you, although I know the experience will not be very pleasant for Miss Winchester. It would have to have been a very strong concoction of mistletoe to put her in any danger..." Her eyes widened suddenly, and she spun round to face Miss Darby. "Miss Darby, are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Miss Darby said, looking down at the empty teacup in her hand.

"Miss Winchester's cup must have been poured second – She got the stronger dregs at the bottom of the pot. Oh, I'm so sorry, miss!"

"Mortimer, have you finished putting away Miss Winchester's things in her room?" Sir Edward asked, turning to the butler who was lurking in a shadowy corner, as usual.

"I have, sir."

"Good. Please assist Dr. Watson in carrying her upstairs – And someone get that blasted Florence girl out here at once!"

I felt as though my insides had been left on the floor, as Watson and Mortimer suddenly hoisted me up, Mortimer holding me under my arms, and Watson taking my legs. I dangled somewhat like a hammock between them, feeling steadily more and more queasy, as the two men carried me up the stairs, and eventually deposited me on to a soft, four poster bed, draped in white coverlets and curtains. I felt another sickening jolt in my stomach, and gestured, desperately to Watson. Deigning my meaning, Watson grabbed the porcelain basin from the washstand, and I was violently sick in to it, and then curled up in to a shivering ball, my head swimming with nausea. Then, a warm, comforting hand, smelling slightly of soap and old books, came to rest on my hair, and stroked it, soothingly.

"There, there," Mycroft's voice said, gently. "Isn't there anything you can do to settle her, Dr. Watson?"

"I'm afraid all I could do to treat her would make her more uncomfortable," Watson said with a sigh. "Usually I'd suggest a laxative or an emetic, but her body seems to be expelling the poison quite well on its own. There doesn't seem to be any need to help it along. As for something to ease her pain, well, I'm afraid it wouldn't have much effect, what with her continuously projectile vomiting. No, we'd best leave it to take its course. The poison will be passed in its own time. In the meantime, I'd suggest we get her in to bed, and leave her in a bit of peace – She doesn't need us watching her and making her feel humiliated."

The upstairs maid came in to help me undress, and change in to my nightwear, and I then collapsed in to bed, and curled up under the coverlet, trembling. I tried to decide which of my ordeals was the most painful – being shot, or being poisoned – and decided on the poisoning. At least, having been shot, I had afterwards fallen in to a deep, painless sleep. My body was now so wracked with sickness, that I felt it unlikely that I would ever know the peace of sleep again. What's more, I was having to get up every ten minutes or so to run to the bathroom and vomit, or worse (Being poisoned was certainly more disgusting than being shot.) I must have slept, however (although I certainly did not gain any rest or relief from it,) as when I next remember raising my cold, damp face from the pillow, the afternoon sunlight outside the window had been replaced with a gradually falling twilight. I sat up, thankfully not feeling the urge to be sick again, and was just arranging the blankets around my weak body, when there came a knock at the door.

"Come in," I croaked.

I smiled at the sight of Mycroft coming in to the room, followed by the very anxious looking kitchen maid, Florence.

"The stomach demons have ceased to besiege you, Miss Winchester?" Mycroft asked, sweetly, taking a chair at my bedside. Usually, I would have protested at being treated in this rather child-like manner, but Mycroft did it in such a way that I found quite endearing, and I smiled at him again.

"I'm afraid not," I said, clutching at my violently churning stomach, and praying that I would not have to make another dash to the bathroom in front of Mycroft and Florence. Florence suddenly threw herself forward, landing on her knees, and clutching at my bedclothes in tears.

"I'm so sorry, miss!" she almost wailed. "I really thought I'd followed the recipe correctly, really, I did! I didn't realise I'd put too many leaves in! _Please _don't be furious with me! Sir Edward and Mrs. Potter are both furious with me, they say I'll be out on the street with a single word from you!.."

"Oh, of course not!" I said, patting the poor, distressed girl on the hand, sympathetically. "It's alright, Florence, I understand. It was just an accident."

"You see, my dear girl?" Mycroft said, comfortingly to her. "I told you everything would be quite alright. Just go downstairs, and calm yourself with a biscuit or some such – I find that always helps with me."

He handed her his own red silk handkerchief, which she used to dry her eyes, and then handed back with a word of thanks, and quietly left the room.

"You really aren't feeling any better, Miss Winchester?" Mycroft asked with concern, after poor Florence had gone.

"I haven't been sick in a while," I said, still carefully monitoring the activity of my stomach, "but I don't think it's quite stopped yet. And I am still feeling rather uncomfortable."

"You won't pass a very good night, I fancy," Mycroft said, sympathetically, sweetly touching my cheek. "I don't suppose you'll be taking any dinner?"

I gagged at the very thought, but took deep breaths to keep my stomach under control.

"I don't think Sherlock would let them feed you anything, anyway," Mycroft said with a laugh. "I haven't seen him this furious since the spider he'd been keeping in a bottle in our nursery escaped!"

"Don't worry," I said, trying not to become too delighted at Holmes's apparent concern for me; "He'd never abandon the case – Even if I'd died, I think he would have carried on!"

A peculiar smile turned up the corner of Mycroft's mouth, and he chuckled and shook his head, his silver eyes glimmering.

"Although he has undoubtedly tried to convince you of that," he said, "I don't think you believe it for a moment, do you? It might interest you to know, Miss Winchester, that in our own special field, Sherlock has always considered me his superior. Do you know why?"

I wordlessly shook my head, enthralled by Mycroft's gleaming little eyes.

"It is because I am capable of reading people's emotions, aswell as their actions and their professions. Sherlock has denied himself the great skill of being able to understand emotion, because he has convinced himself that emotions are secondary, and, to some extent, hazardous, and has discarded them; and of course, you cannot understand what you have not experienced yourself. I, however, understand them in all their intricacies, which is very useful when it comes to determining Sherlock's emotions – Yes, Miss Winchester, he does _have _emotions beneath it all, as I am sure you have not failed to notice. Like a child who has not yet learned rules and manners, Sherlock's inexperience with emotion means that he can only express it in two extremes – either not at all, or to an extremely violent extent, as you witnessed today. Naturally, he prefers being a cold, emotionless character. You mustn't hold it against him, or take it as a sign that he does not care. It is merely that he has found it..._inadvisable _to care in the past."

"Your mother?" I asked, without thinking. Mycroft froze, and I actually saw the little boy in him for a moment, the child who had been so frightfully abused (although I did not know just yet to what extent.)

"Yes, our mother," he said, sadly, taking a pinch of snuff to steady himself. "Heavens, I can barely remember her face! The rustling of a silk skirt outside the nursery door, the smell of her perfume on the hampers we received at school – Those are all my memories of her. And as for our father, well...He was impossible to care for."

"I remember you said you had a letter from my father, when he was a child," I began, hesitantly. "Your father beat you for reading it?"

"Yes indeed," Mycroft helped himself to a humbug from his pocket, and sucked on it, nervously. "Father was very heavy handed with the cane. He said it built character, although I say it was revenge – Revenge for what _his _father did to _him. _He wanted us to be strong boys, stern boys..._fit _boys." He looked down at his great, protruding stomach, and his shoulders slumped. A tear fell on to his slate grey waistcoat.

"I'm sorry!" I gasped, reaching over, and placing a hand on his knee. "I'm sorry, I never should have brought it up, I know what it's like..."

"No," Mycroft shook his large head, and looked up with a bright, but tear-stained smile. "No, no, it's good that you should know all this. Sherlock has his own designs of moulding you in to something, but I'd like to influence you too, if I can." He took my hand in his, and smiled in to my eyes. "You've got spirit, Harriett dear, and that's just as important in our line of work as a cold and logical view of the world, no matter what my brother may say. Spirit is never a bad thing." He gave a nervous swallow, and clutched my hand. "It was spirit that got me through those times when Father would lock me in a room for days on end, without food."

Sickness overwhelmed me, but it had nothing to do with the mistletoe poison that was still flowing through my body.

"_What?_"

"We all find our substitutes for yearned for affection, Miss Winchester. Sherlock's was to simply stop yearning for it – and the taking up of tobacco at the age of sixteen – and mine was food. Our governess noticed me getting rather fat, and Father attempted to put a stop to it, without much success, as you can see. I had a firm dislike for rules, and became quite skilled in hiding food about the place. People can be cruel, Miss Winchester," Mycroft said, brushing away the solitary tear that rolled down my cheek; "People can be cruel, and people can be difficult, _particularly _Sherlock, but you fight against it. Look after him, won't you? Watson is all he has, and I'd feel better knowing that there was someone else to tell him when he's wrong, and make sure he doesn't get himself killed."

A strangled laugh broke through my tears.

"I will," I said, clutching his hand. "I promise."

Smiling, Mycroft kissed me on my forehead, bid me goodnight, and left the room.

I did not, as Mycroft predicted, have a particularly good night. I tossed and turned in pain and discomfort, and had to visit the bathroom twice, and came close to fainting with exhaustion. Finally, after looking at the carriage clock on my bedside table, and finding that it was still only a quarter to nine, and that I had hours of pointless attempts to get to sleep still ahead of me, I flung off the coverlet, put on my slippers, and went across to the window seat. Soothing moonlight streamed through in to the dark room, and I looked out at the beautiful night, across the black lawns of Strange Hall, towards the belt of trees that surrounded the estate. The sky above them was inky blue, sprinkled with clusters of glittering, silver stars, and I began to remember the times when, back at the stables in Virginia, my father had made a campfire on the hillside, and the two of us had lain back in the grass, counting the stars above us, while Father told me their names...

My gentle reminiscences were suddenly shattered by the sound of a blood-curdling scream tearing through the house. My heart nearly stopped in my chest. It was a woman's scream – a young woman, probably Eve Strange – coming from downstairs in the entrance hall. Frightened, but also thinking of Holmes and Watson and Mycroft, and of what on earth might be happening in this sinister house, I rushed out in to the corridor in nothing but my nightdress and dressing gown, and ran down the stairs. Halfway down, I suddenly barged in to Eve Strange, wild, and pale as the moon, and gnawing on her fingers like a madwoman.

"Eve!" I cried, staring at her in horror. "Eve, what on earth's happened?"

"_It's horrible!" _Eve shrieked, fighting to get away from me. "_It's horrible! Oh, God help us!_"

I stared after her as she ran away up the stairs, sobbing. Filled with dread, I ran down in to the entrance hall, and saw that the dining room door was open. As I hurried towards it, however, Miss Darby emerged, and, seeing me, quickly slammed the door behind her.

"Oh please, miss!" she pleaded, holding me back as I tried to enter. "Please don't go in there, you'll wish to God you hadn't!"

"What's happened?" I demanded (I was distinctly worried by the fact that I had not yet seen either Holmes, Watson, or Mycroft.) "What's going on? Is everyone alright?"

"Oh, miss!" Miss Darby looked close to tears. "If only!"

Terror seized me. I shoved my way past her, and burst in to the dining room, looking around. It was empty. However, the door to the parlour was wide open, with a purple velvet curtain draped over the entrance, and the light of a flickering fire coming from inside. I dashed in to the room, and heard, as I did so, the sound of glass cracking beneath my satin slippers. One of the antique mirrors hanging on the dining room wall had apparently fallen and shattered near the parlour door.

The parlour itself was a small, circular room, but, despite its size, was lavishly decorated. The carpet was scarlet, as was the marvellous, partially gilded wainscoting on the walls, although it was mostly covered by the purple velvet curtains that had been hung all around the room. The fire was burning low in the grate, casting deep shadows around the place, and adding new hues to the rich colours of the room, but also giving it a sinister quality. In the middle of the parlour was a round, polished table, set with the unmistakeable paraphernalia of the Ouigi board, and surrounded by a circle of ten chairs, some of which had been knocked over. Scattered around the table were the Strange family, and, to my relief, Holmes, Watson, and Mycroft, who were all looking at something on the floor with expressions of sheer horror and disgust.

"What's wrong?" I asked, breathlessly, approaching Holmes. It was then that I followed his gaze...and was nearly sick from a combination of poisoning and horror.

There, on the carpet, twisted and deformed in a way that rendered her almost unrecognisable, her glassy eyes wide with terror, and with the number 13 bizarrely and horrifically scrawled in red on her forehead, lay Lady Ruth Strange.


	11. Chapter 10

My head reeled, and I staggered, dangerously against Holmes, shutting my eyes, tightly against the sight of that twisted, terrified looking corpse, with its ruby lips parted in a silent scream. My senses only came back to me a minute or so later, when I found myself being carried away from the dining room door by Watson, who had bundled me up in to his arms without assistance (Watson's relatively short stature was quite deceiving, as I observed on many occasions during my long friendship with him that he was as strong as a cart horse. And besides, I was a mere slip of a girl at the age of sixteen.) I tried to protest as he carried me up the stairs, but after my short burst of energy, the mistletoe poison had overwhelmed me again, and I could scarcely catch my breath. As it was, as soon as Watson had left me in the middle of my room, with a firm word telling me to stay where I was, I rushed to my bathroom, and was violently sick in to the lavatory. Then, too exhausted to disobey Watson's order, I collapsed on to my bed, and closed my eyes, trying not to picture Lady Ruth's horrific corpse on the black of my closed eyelids.

I lay there quietly for several minutes, before a soft knock at my door attracted my attention, and Eve Strange walked in to the room. Her blonde curls were slightly dishevelled, and she was still visibly shaking, but she smiled, and calmly sat down on the bed beside me.

"Are you feeling alright, Miss Winchester?" she asked, kindly.

"I could ask the same of you," I said, looking at her drawn, blanched face. "You've had a horrible shock."

Eve smiled, somewhat darkly, and looked at the floor, her small fists clenched, tightly in her lap.

"A shock," she echoed, her mouth still twitching in that peculiar smile. "That's just it. To me, it shouldn't be a shock. I hated Ruth – I won't deny it! I loathed her, and ever since Father married her, I've wanted rid of her. I'd always thought that the day of her death would be the happiest day of my life! But when I saw it happening..." An expression of fear filled her eyes, and she rubbed her hands, nervously together. "...When I actually saw it happening in front of my eyes, it was terrible. I actually _pitied _her for a moment..." Eve looked at me suddenly, ashamed. "I'm sorry, this is so morbid of me, of course I would never have wished her dead..."

"It's alright," I said, smiling at her. I, of all people, understood Eve's hate for Lady Ruth a great deal. "I hated my stepmother, too. She went to prison not long ago, and I expected to feel overjoyed about it, but, deep down..." I thought for a moment, and realised that, yes, I _did _feel a little pity for Rowena. It was almost a relief when I thought about it, for I would never have wanted to become as bitter and callous as she was.

"But what actually _happened_?" I asked Eve, desperately. "I can't understand it."

"Neither can I," Eve said, her face becoming pale again, and a screwed up hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, if only we'd listened to Aunt Clara!"

"What do you mean?" I asked, my heart beginning to thud, ominously, in my chest.

Eve's misty blue eyes were bright with horror (as I observed them closely, I actually saw that they were blue with flecks of brown,) and she gripped my hand, tightly as she spoke.

"It was the curse!" she hissed, in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. "Ruth was the first to leave the table, and not minutes later, she died!"

"But _how_?" I insisted, simply refusing to believe that Lady Ruth's death was the result of supernatural forces lurking in the silverware, of all places. "Tell me what happened, _exactly_." Eve took a deep breath to gather herself;

"We all sat down to dinner in a rather bad mood, I have to say. Aunt Clara was nervous because of the silverware, Father and Ruth had just had another row with Uncle Thomas, over money, I think, and your Mr. Holmes wasn't in the best of spirits either."

"He's always like that," I said.

"Well, just before dessert, Mortimer accidently dropped the syrup pot over Ruth. She was absolutely furious, as you can imagine, Miss Darby had to stop her from striking Mortimer! She was so angry, she refused to let anyone help her as she went to clean her dress. She was the first to leave the table...And then she died!"

"Why were you all in the parlour?"

"Well, after Mrs. Potter had poured the dessert wines, Aunt Clara suggested we set up the Ouigi board," Eve explained, "because she could feel that the spirits were wanting to come through. Uncle Thomas thought it was a ridiculous idea, and I think Mr. Holmes agreed with him; but everyone else said they wanted to try it, so Aunt Clara went up to her room to fetch the board. Miss Darby and I set up the room, and when we were done, Aunt Clara asked for a moment alone to gather herself. When we went in..." A peculiar look came to Eve's face. "...When we went in, she was in a sort of trance-like state. She could barely talk to us. Then, when we were all sat round the table, the glass started to move!"

Eve looked at me, expectantly, as though the phenomenon of a glass moving across a table with human fingers touching it at all times was astonishing enough to make me believe in the power of the curse.

"Go on," I said, distinctly unimpressed.

"The glass began to move, just in a small circle at first; but then the circle grew wider and wider, and Dr. Watson asked who was pushing the glass. Everyone insisted that their hands were still." (An unsurprising claim that I had heard before.) "Aunt Clara asked for the spirit to spell out its name. It responded immediately, the glass nearly flew over the edge of the table!"

"What did it spell?" I asked. Eve looked at me for a moment, her eyes as large as saucers.

"Maria," she said, in little more than a whisper. "It was the spirit of the Countess. Aunt Clara asked her what she wanted, and she said...she said..." Eve crossed herself, fervently. "She said, 'I have come for Ruth'!"

I still did not believe that any of this had a supernatural source, but the haunting words of the last message sent a deep chill seeping in to my bones, in to my very soul. As did what Eve said next...

"And then she appeared."

I looked up, stunned.

"What?"

"She appeared," Eve's voice was trembling. "It was her apparition – Clear and vivid, but somehow transparent, as though she wasn't really there. She looked exactly as she did in the portrait in the dining room, wearing red, and with a feathered headdress on her head. But her face...Oh, God, her face was terrible! It was angry, and she looked at Ruth stood at the Ouigi board with this fire in her black eyes! Then she disappeared, and Ruth suddenly began writhing and twisting, and clutching at everyone in pain, and she was screaming; _'Can't you see them? Can't you see them? They're everywhere!' _She was clawing at the air, like she was being attacked by something flying through the air around her. And then suddenly the fire went out, and Ruth gave this horrible, strangled scream, and...and when Aunt Clara managed to light the fire again, Ruth was lying on the floor dead, with that number painted on her forehead!"

Eve buried her face in her hands, as though trying to block out the memory of Lady Ruth's death, and clutched at her hair. I placed a comforting arm around her, and soothed her as she cried, but the sound of a couple of heavy carriages pulling up outside the house, followed by the sound of several loud, commanding voices downstairs in the entrance hall made us both look up.

"That'll be the police," I said, marvelling at how quick they had been in getting to the Hall – It had been less than half an hour since Lady Ruth's horrific demise.

Pulling Eve by the sleeve of her dress, I went over to the bedroom door, and cautiously opened it. The stairwell was visible from my doorway, and the shadows of running people danced on the nearby wall, illuminated by the light coming from the entrance hall below. Eve and I crept along the hallway, and knelt behind the banisters, peering through them, and looking down in to the entrance hall. Officers in dark uniform were darting backwards and forwards, ushering the startled Strange family in to the drawing room, while Holmes and Mycroft stood in the centre of the entrance hall, opposite a tall, rather plump Inspector, in a long, tweed coat, with a brown bowler hat, and the most enormous moustache I have ever seen. He was a defiant looking fellow, and Holmes and Mycroft had evidently noticed this, as they were now standing before him with a stubborn air of authority.

"Well," the Inspector said, with a strong, Northern burr; "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?"

"Indeed, Inspector," Holmes said, presenting the Inspector with a welcoming hand (although there was a definite cold edge to his voice.) "How do you do? This is my brother, Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

"Ah, yes, sir," the Inspector said, greeting Mycroft with, I thought, a tad more respect than he had Holmes. "Good to meet you. Detective Inspector Herman Douglas. I want you to know, sir, that I was informed of yours and Mr. Holmes's presence here by the Palace the day before you arrived."

"Yes, I know," Mycroft said, taking his usual pinch of snuff. "You will know of the reason for our visit, then?"

"Absolutely, sir, and I swear to you, I shall make not the slightest hindrance to your investigation..."

"If that is your intention, Inspector," Holmes said, curtly, "may I ask that you do one thing?"

"What's that?" Inspector Douglas's beady, dark eyes narrowed as they looked at Holmes.

"Will you please _unhand_ – " Holmes suddenly reached out, and prised Watson's arm from the grip of a passing constable, who was fairly dragging the poor doctor to the drawing room – "my colleague!" Then, before the gesture could be misconstrued as a mere sign of affection, he added, "He is most valuable to me in my investigations."

Inspector Douglas sighed, and nodded an apology to Watson, then dismissed the rather startled-looking constable who had been leading him back to the drawing room.

"There we are, Mr. Holmes," Douglas said, folding his heavy arms. "As I said, I have no wish to interfere in your investigation. The death of Lady Ruth Strange, however," he added, his eyes narrowing again, "is _my _investigation, and I would appreciate it if, in return, you did not interfere yourselves. Is that clear?"

I pitied poor Douglas, for denying Holmes a case was like denying a dog its bone, or a child their favourite toy (in that it would result in either mass destruction, or sulking.)

"...Eve?"

I was suddenly startled by the presence of a small, brown-haired boy, clad in his pyjamas, and carrying a very furry, black teddy bear, with orange glass eyes.

"Eve, what's going on?" the boy whimpered to Eve.

"Adam!" Eve hissed, crawling over to the boy, and shooing him off of the landing. "Adam, go back to bed! Go back to bed now, you know it's late!"

"But what's going on?" the boy demanded, shooting a curious glance in my direction. "Who's that girl? Why is everyone shouting?"

"Go back to the nursery!" Eve said, putting her arms around the boy, and leading him down the hallway. "Come on, I'll tuck you in."

"Miss Darby does that."

"I know, but tonight, _I'll _do it. And I'll read you a story, if you like." Eve glanced over her shoulder at me, and I nodded, and went back to watching Holmes and Inspector Douglas.

"...You do not think then, Inspector," I heard Holmes say, "that these two cases might possibly be linked?"

Douglas stared at Holmes for a moment.

"Linked?" he said. "How so?"

"It is rather suspicious, is it not," Holmes commented, casually lighting a cigarette, "that the gems of the former Russian Tsarina should be stolen from the Strange house, and then, just three days later, Lady Strange herself dies mysteriously?"

"A coincidence," Douglas said, dismissively. "If this is you trying to get in on my case, Mr. Holmes..."

"It is also rather suspicious," Holmes went on, "that before the theft of the Tsarina's jewels, several other items of jewellery – happening to belong to Lady Strange – had gone missing from the house, and Lady Strange herself had become convinced that someone was targeting her."

Douglas's face grew crimson beneath his great, dark moustache.

"I wasn't aware of that," he said, meekly.

"No, I'm sure you weren't," Holmes said with something of a sneer. "It is no great step, Inspector Douglas, to imagine that Lady Ruth's death was the result of her desire to find and keep the gems that her possible murderer had stolen."

"So you're saying that this was murder, Mr. Holmes?" Douglas said.

"That much is obvious, Inspector, perfectly healthy women not long in their fortieth year do not tend to suddenly and dramatically drop dead of natural causes. So, it seems that both your enquiry and mine are unavoidably linked. Whilst we shall do our best to keep out of your way, I would appreciate it if you would also be so good as to cooperate with myself, my brother Mycroft, Dr. Watson...and Miss Winchester up there."

I froze as Holmes gestured, without a look, up to the landing were I was crouched, observing the scene.

"Oh really, Sherlock my boy! Now was there any need for that?" Mycroft chided, gently. "_I_ noticed the young lady minutes ago, but there was no need to embarrass her like that!"

"Yes, you were always very candid about eavesdropping, Brother Mine," Holmes replied, tersely. "But really, Miss Winchester, I would suggest that you go back to bed. You cannot be nearly strong enough yet..."

"I'm actually feeling much better, Holmes," I called down to him, standing up (This was not quite true, as I was still feeling rather queasy, and my face was still cold, blanched and sweating.) "Just let me change in to my dress, and I'll be downstairs in a few minutes."

"I really don't think that's advisable, Miss Winchester..." Watson began.

"Nonsense, Watson, the young lady knows her own mind," Holmes said, clapping Watson on the shoulder. "Now, Inspector Douglas, if you would make sure that everyone is gathered in the drawing room? Once Miss Winchester is ready, we can begin our questioning."

He turned on his heel, and walked towards the drawing room, beckoning Watson to accompany him. Inspector Douglas narrowed his eyes, and grumbled.

"_I _can begin _my _questioning, Mr. Holmes," he said.


	12. Chapter 11

**Note from Agatha: Hi! Sorry for the longer than usual pause in updating. Been busy planning and celebrating my 18th birthday :D Hope you like this chapter.**

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**A bleak atmosphere hung in the drawing room of Strange Hall. Everyone sat still and motionless before Inspector Douglas's questioning, replying with obscure, often one-worded answers, and gazing on the Inspector with empty expressions and haunted eyes. There were no tears – Everyone seemed too numb for tears. Sir Edward sat hunched over on the settee, staring, listlessly at the Turkish rug, with an un-tasted brandy in his hand, having had it placed there a few minutes previously by Miss Darby. Miss Darby herself was also seated on the sofa, her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes closed, while her form was as still as a granite statue. She seemed to have completely receded in to herself, and I wondered if her mind was forcing her to relive the horrific scene of Lady Ruth's death inside her head. Mr. Thomas Strange was lounging back in the window seat, also holding a brandy (his fourth,) while Mrs. Strange stood near the fireplace with Miss Strange, her face even ghostlier than usual, while her companion retained her usual, frosty composure, but with a faint trace of something around her eyes – Anger, disgust, sadness, indifference? It was impossible to tell.

To one side of the room stood Mrs. Potter, Mortimer, and the clumsy kitchen maid, Florence (the only person in the room who was shedding tears, though they were most likely more out of distress than grief for her mistress. I felt sorry for the poor girl, as she seemed a sensitive soul, and, after her accidental poisoning of me that afternoon, she had been through more than enough.) Holmes had taken up a pensive position in an overshadowed corner of the room, where he could casually observe, and had so far made no interruption to Inspector Douglas's questioning (though I could quite clearly see him sighing and rolling his eyes to some of Douglas's questions.) Mycroft in turn sat observing Holmes from a little distance away (I could see that Mycroft took the responsibility that came with being the elder sibling very seriously,) while Watson had immediately directed me to an armchair once I had entered the room, and was hovering nearby, occasionally asking me if I was feeling quite well (I wasn't, but determination overruled sickness.)

"So," Inspector Douglas said, a little wearily, as he glanced around at the silent room; "Let me see if I have this correct...At around half past eight this evening, just after dinner, you all adjourned to the parlour next door to the dining room – except for Miss Winchester here, who was ill upstairs, and Mrs. Potter, Mr. Mortimer, and Miss Cooper, who were all in the kitchen – to take part in a séance?"

"Yes," Miss Strange said, blackly.

"Very good. And during this séance, a spirit apparently made itself known, and left a threatening message regarding Lady Ruth, and then – and this is the part I wish to be _absolutely _clear about – the spirit appeared in front of you in the room, and killed Lady Ruth?"

"That's right," Miss Strange kept her grave attitude. "It was the curse. Maria's curse."

"Ah, yes," Inspector Douglas frowned at his notes, and I could tell from the way that he cautiously glanced up at Miss Strange that he thought her quite insane. "That would be the supposedly cursed silverware?"

"If a group of thirteen people ever use the silverware, the first to leave the table will die," Miss Strange said with a nod. "That is the curse. There were ten of us at dinner, Mrs. Potter and Florence here cooked the meal, and Mortimer served. That makes thirteen. Ruth was unfortunate enough to be the one to leave her chair first..."

"_Rubbish!_"

The whole room started, and looked round at Thomas Strange, who was sitting up on the window seat, bordering on drunk.

"Am I the only one who'll say it?" he slurred, angrily. "Am I the only one who'll say what really happened in that room, even with Ruth dead?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Strange?" Mycroft pressed.

"It was Clara!" Mr. Strange stood up (though he teetered slightly,) and glared at his sister in disgust. "For God's sake, we all know it! Why do you think Joseph divorced her? Because she's a con-artist, a cheat! That bloody 'spirit' you're all talking about was just one of her tricks!"

"Is that true, Miss Strange?" Inspector Douglas asked, sharply.

Miss Strange's face had gone a livid white. Icicles seemed to shoot from her dark eyes, and she trembled with rage as she hissed in reply, "_No._"

"You're sure about that now? Miss Strange, it's a very serious thing to withhold evidence in a murder enquiry..."

"_No!_" Miss Strange repeated, leaping forwards. "That apparition had nothing to do with me, I tell you!" She spun round, angrily to face her brother. "And I'm insulted that you would even think that I would do such a thing!"

"Oh, please!" Mr. Strange spat. "You think I don't know how it all works? How you claim to give peace and comfort to poor, grief-stricken wretches, desperate to talk to their father or a lost child again, and then pocket their money? Well, you don't do it all out of the kindness of your heart, do you?" he replied to Miss Strange's humiliated blush. "Everything has its price! I suppose Ruth's life wasn't worth all that much, seeing as you're willing to lie and dance on her grave, just to get us to believe in your candles and tambourines muck?"

"Alright, Thomas, that's enough!" Sir Edward suddenly swallowed his brandy in one gulp, and stood up, trembling, to calm his brother. "Don't you think _you're_ dancing on poor Ruth's grave just a little by causing this scene?" Mr. Strange gave a cold sneer.

"Oh, of course," he said, with a brutal laugh in his voice. "Dear old Clara can't do any wrong in your eyes, can she? Not even when she started all this blasphemy – not even when she got divorced..."

"That was Joseph's doing, not Clara's..."

"I suppose you'd defend her even if she murdered your wife? I wouldn't even be surprised if you'd encouraged it! Got sick of that God awful woman at last, did you?.."

There was a thump and a clatter, and a scream from Mrs. Strange, and it took me a moment to register that Sir Edward had punched Mr. Strange. The man now lay sprawled on the floor, his lip bleeding, while Inspector Douglas yanked Sir Edward back by his collar, and Mrs. Potter and Miss Darby hurried to assist the dazed Mr. Strange.

"_Stop it!_" Mrs. Strange shrieked suddenly, and the whole room whirled round to look at her. "All of you, just stop it! I can't stand it anymore!" The distraught woman then seized her sister-in-law, and began weeping, bitterly against her shoulder.

Awkward glances were exchanged around the room, but Miss Strange seemed to take the situation completely in her stride, and patted Mrs. Strange's hair, soothingly, before leading her out of the room, shooting an icy glare behind her at her family. Sir Edward and Mr. Strange, meanwhile, seemed to be engaged in a staring competition, while Mrs. Potter and Miss Darby stood, nervously between them. Finally, Sir Edward spoke;

"If you are quite finished, Inspector? I'm afraid we're all rather stunned at present – We might be of better use to you in the morning?"

Inspector Douglas rifled, quickly through the notes he had been scribbling down, but as he looked, his face grew more and more perplexed, and he at last seemed to give up, and flung himself down in the armchair opposite mine.

"Yes, you had all best get some rest," he said (adding under his breath, "God knows _I _need some!") "I'll call round tomorrow at nine, sharp, if I may? And please, do not let anyone go in to the parlour at present."

"What – " Sir Edward's words seemed to catch in his throat, but he gathered himself, and took a step towards the Inspector. "What about my wife?"

"I've had my men take the lady out to the wagon, sir," Douglas replied, solemnly. "We can – We can give you a moment alone with her, if you wish?"

"Heavens, no!" Sir Edward recoiled in horror. "Oh God, I couldn't bear to see that again!" Then, after having some thought, he quickly delved his hand in to his pocket, and took out the rosary. Kissing it, he handed it to Inspector Douglas, and said, "But will you see that this is placed around her neck?"

"Of course, sir."

A roomful of eyes followed Sir Edward as he left the drawing room, white and shaking, closely followed by Miss Darby, Mortimer, the still weeping Florence, and a disgruntled looking Mr. Strange.

"One moment, Mrs. Potter!" Holmes said, as the woman made to leave the room also. Inspector Douglas twisted round in his chair, and glared in Holmes's direction.

"I'm quite finished for tonight, Mr. Holmes!" he said, sharply.

"Yes, Inspector, if you wish to learn absolutely nothing tonight, and waste valuable time."

Douglas grew red, and spluttered with rage.

"And what exactly could you learn from their comments, Mr. Holmes? You heard them, they were all talking gibberish! Bloody cursed silverware and ghosts flying about the place! It's absurd!.."

"It seems absurd now, Inspector, because you have not asked the right questions. Now, Mrs. Potter," Holmes turned to the woman, and peered at her over his steepled fingers; "You served us all the same meal from the same pot tonight, I take it?"

Mrs. Potter raised her eyebrows, and glanced, uncertainly between myself, Holmes, Watson and Mycroft.

"Yes, sir."

"There was nothing different about Lady Ruth's meal at all?"

"No, sir."

Holmes clenched his fist, and his eyes darted about as he pondered.

"So it wasn't the food," he muttered to himself. "What about drink?"

"Look here, Holmes, what's this all about?" the irritated, moustached Inspector demanded. On the far side of the room, I heard Mycroft sigh a little, and murmur something about, 'getting denser every year.'

"Well, it's quite simple, Inspector," Holmes said, in his most deliberately patronising manner. "This was murder, there is no doubt about that. However, Lady Ruth died before witnesses, and there were no marks of violence on her body. How, therefore, did she die?"

"Poison," my stomach curdled at the word, but I took a deep breath to steady myself. "You're saying Lady Ruth was poisoned?"

Mrs. Potter's eyes widened, and she clutched at her chest suddenly in a panic.

"I...You don't think..? I would _never_..."

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Potter, I was not accusing you," Holmes said, holding up a hand to her. "The poison did not necessarily have to have come from the kitchen. What was the wine you served us this evening?"

"It was a '76, sir, but Mortimer opened it at the table, and poured it himself, there was no opportunity for anyone to..."

"No, certainly not – And in any case, we all drank the wine from that bottle. What about dessert wines?"

"Port, sir, I always serve..." Mrs. Potter drew in her breath suddenly, and looked at Holmes in horror. "Lady Strange had claret! She always has it with her desserts, you see she prefers...she _preferred_...it to port."

Holmes gave a small, satisfied smile, and turned to Inspector Douglas.

"There you are, Inspector. Simply by asking the right questions, we have already determined the method of the murder."

Inspector Douglas gave a snort of contempt.

" 'Determined' indeed! It's just a theory! Still," he added, shifting, uncomfortably in his seat, "it's a possibility we'll look in to, Mr. Holmes. But I don't think anyone could explain this ghost business...Not even you..."

I glimpsed Watson and Mycroft exchanging terrified looks, before Holmes suddenly stood up with a small laugh, and said, "Would you mind if I examined the parlour quickly, Inspector?"

"Well..."

"Thank you."

In a flash, Holmes had swept out of the drawing room door, and was making his way across the entrance hall to the dining room. Watson immediately took off after him, and I made to do the same, but found myself delayed by a rush of dizziness. After gently persuading myself not to projectile vomit everywhere, I looked up to find that Inspector Douglas had rushed out of the drawing room, calling, "Now wait just a moment!", while Mycroft had still not yet managed to heave himself up out of his chair. I went over and took his arm, helping him to his feet with a smile, and the two of us entered the dining room to find Holmes kneeling on the floor outside the parlour, examining the shattered mirror, while Inspector Douglas stood over him, insisting, "Five minutes, Mr. Holmes, _five minutes_! I can't have you crawling about the place all..."

"I am very grateful to you, Inspector, I'm sure," Holmes said, absentmindedly, as he looked up at the walls around him. "Where was this mirror hung originally?"

"There, I suppose," I said, pointing to a bare space on the wall, a fair few feet from the parlour door. To my surprise, Holmes produced a tape measure from his pocket, and stretched it between the gap on the wall, and the shards of mirror that lay in the parlour doorway.

"This was a heavy mirror," he commented, nudging the large, gilded frame with his foot. "It is quite a thing for it to have fallen from the wall there, and landed on the floor here just outside the parlour door."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, but I don't _believe _it has anything to do with the theft of the Tsarina's necklace, which is what you are supposed to be investigating," Inspector Douglas said, folding his arms, and narrowing his eyes at Holmes. "Now, if you're quite done..?"

"A moment, Inspector," Holmes said, crawling away in to the darkness of the parlour.

The four of us gathered around the parlour door and watched him, curiously, as he nudged about in the fireplace with his gloved hands. Sifting some of the ash through his fingers, Holmes looked at it, intently, and I saw his grey eyes glimmer suddenly like a cat's in the darkness.

"Mr. Holmes..." Inspector Douglas's voice was heavy with impatience.

"Yes, that will be all, Inspector," Holmes said, jumping to his feet, and strolling past the Inspector. "I will look forward to seeing you in the morning."

Inspector Douglas blinked at Holmes.

"Haven't you found anything, Mr. Holmes? Nothing you need to tell me?"

I suppressed a laugh as Holmes turned to the Inspector with twinkling eyes, a mischievous smile playing at his lips.

"Inspector, I wouldn't dream of telling you how to conduct _your _murder investigation. My concerns are for the recovery of the Tsarina's jewels alone. Now, we had all best get to bed; you particularly, Miss Winchester, I can see that Dr. Watson will throw a fit if you remain on your feet a moment longer."

"Thank goodness," Mycroft said with a yawn.


	13. Chapter 12

**Note from Agatha: AAAH! Sorry updates are starting to take so long! Finding myself distracted by coursework, a touch of writer's block, and Peter Cushing ;) (Got a new Hammer Horror DVD boxset for my bday!) Please be patient with me!**

* * *

The next morning found me feeling much better in myself. The queasiness had subsided, and, although I had not had much sleep, I felt as though my body – though still a little on the delicate side – was thankfully returning to normal. Things in the Strange house, however, were far from normal. I awoke rather later than usual, and, by the time I had washed and dressed myself, went downstairs to find nothing but an eerie, chilling silence (Indeed, the house itself seemed to feel colder.) After checking all the rooms (though the haunting memory of last night prevented me from going in to the dining room,) I concluded that the family must have been outside, and so went out on to the terrace. There I was greeted with one of the oddest, yet strangely beautiful sights I had ever seen.

It was a bright, sunny morning, with a perfect blue sky, and the terrace seemed cast in shadow in comparison. While a team of uniformed officers scoured the green lawns in the sunlight, shuffling along almost like a heard of grazing cattle, the Strange family all sat gathered together on the grey little terrace, completely clad in black. Sir Edward and his brother wore twin suits of black silk (though Mr. Strange's did not appear to be as new as Sir Edward's,) while Mrs. Strange sat close to her husband in a wicker chair, wearing a set of enormous, black lace skirts, with a sombre black veil drawn over her face. Eve Strange looked resplendent in a long, narrow dress of black satin, its skirt fanning out at the bottom like an umbrella, coupled with a wide-brimmed, black hat, topped with black feathers (though her face bore everything but an expression of mourning. In fact, she looked rather bored.)

Miss Darby sat beside her, with little Adam Strange on her lap, talking softly to the boy as he pulled at the clearly uncomfortable, high, stiff collar of his dark suit, obviously not understanding the severity of the situation. Miss Darby herself was dressed in a black tweed outfit, beautifully embroidered (by hand, it seemed,) with gold thread, stitched in to a pattern of weeping willow branches, perhaps inspired by the many willow trees that surrounded Strange Hall. It was a lovely garment, and she had obviously spent weeks embroidering it. A gold and ruby brooch was pinned to her collar, accenting the ruby of her lips (it was a rather silly colour choice, I thought, as her face was far too soft, and her complexion far too fair to suit it,) but her severely ladylike appearance was softened by the motherly way in which she stroked little Adam's hair, and cast inquiring smiles at Eve.

"If you're looking for Mr. Holmes," a voice said suddenly behind me, "he's in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. Potter."

I looked round to see Clara Strange seated behind an easel, brush in hand, wearing a lavishly frilled white blouse, with long black skirts, and a black necktie (Next to Eve, she seemed to be the least in mourning.) I smiled and nodded at her, then curiously peered around the easel to take a look at her work. She too seemed to have seen the bleak beauty of that shadowy little terrace next to the sunlit lawn, and was painting an impressive watercolour of the scene, expertly blending light and shadow with the delicate colours. As I leaned over, I caught a whiff of that distinctive jasmine perfume again.

"It's a significant day in our household," Miss Strange said with some coldness. "I thought I'd capture the moment. What do you think?"

"It's beautiful," I said, admiringly. Miss Strange was at least as good an artist as Holmes was a musician.

"Isn't it just?" Miss Strange commented, wistfully, adding a graceful sweep to Mrs. Strange's shoulders. "I thought I'd name it _'Ruth's Wake'_. I'm sure she'd be very pleased if she could see just what a fuss everyone was making over her."

I retreated from Miss Strange's cold and sharp words, and, bowing with respect to the family as I passed, stepped through the open French windows and the white linen curtains to the kitchen. It was a sweet, comforting sight, as well cared for kitchens often are, with high, wooden beams, red brick walls, and a great inglenook fireplace, the sort that was prevalent in Medieval times (although this one was obviously an imitation.) The oak surfaces were well scrubbed and tidy, and the pine cupboards (painted a charming, cornflower blue,) were neatly arranged with jars of herbs and jams and sauces. There was a mixture of aromas – cedar coming from the logs that were piled up in the fireplace at one end of the kitchen, lavender coming from the bundles of it that were hung to dry from the beams, honey, cinnamon and ginger coming from the pot that Mrs. Potter was stirring on the stove, and tobacco coming from the cigarette that Holmes was smoking, as he leaned back against the kitchen table.

"...Those cigarettes do nothing for your appetite, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Potter commented, just as I entered.

"Please refrain from changing the subject, Mrs. Potter!" Holmes said, sternly. "I asked you, where do you keep..?"

"Good morning, Holmes," I said quickly, before he could be too sharp with the woman. Holmes waved his hand in acknowledgment to me, but I thought I saw a quick, guilty look cross Mrs. Potter's face. Holmes apparently saw it too.

"There is no use hiding it, Mrs. Potter," he said, in his severest tones, blowing wavering smoke rings from his cigarette. "I know that you have just the same suspicions as I. Where do you keep the recipe of the mistletoe tea that you served Miss Winchester yesterday?"

I frowned. Why on earth did Holmes want the recipe of the tea that had poisoned me?

Mrs. Potter ignored him completely, and poured the bubbling, golden-brown coloured substance (about the consistency of molasses,) from the pot that she was simmering in to a tin lined with wax paper. Holmes, however, continued to glare at her with his cat-like eyes, and, as very often happened with people under the pressure of Holmes's intense gaze, I observed Mrs. Potter's face begin to whiten, and her hands begin to tremble.

"Oh, very well!" she said at last, slamming down the tin in her hand, and sending some unusual, star-shaped seeds flying up from it. "It's over there – In that black pot by the fireplace!"

Flicking his dwindling cigarette on to the stone flagged floor (which Mrs. Potter bent down to pick up with some annoyance,) Holmes darted across to what appeared to be a small, black iron cauldron close to the fireplace. He lifted the lid to reveal a treasure trove of papers, and plunged his hand in amongst them, rummaging about until he found one written in deep green ink, with a bold heading scrawled across the top; _'Uses for Mistletoe.'_

"Has this been tampered with in any way?" he asked, presenting the piece of paper to Mrs. Potter. Mrs. Potter glanced at the recipe, and shook her head.

"No," she said. "It's all correct."

"Holmes, what's this about?" I asked, after trying (and failing,) to grasp Holmes's reasoning behind asking these questions.

"Miss Winchester, please refrain from speaking while I am doing so. Now, Mrs. Potter, would you agree that the instructions for the making of the tea are quite clearly written here? 'Top mistletoe and allspice leaves with hot water, stir clockwise, and infuse for at least ten minutes. Note: Do not exceed infusion of four sprigs of mistletoe per cup.' "

"It is all quite clear and legible, yes sir, but obviously our Florence made a mistake..."

"She did not, Mrs. Potter," Holmes said, darkly, folding the piece of paper. "She did not, and I believe that you are well aware of the fact. Miss Winchester was _deliberately _poisoned."

I did a double-take at Holmes's words, and felt my stomach drop in to my boots with horror when I realised that yes, I _had_ heard him right.

"_What?"_

"Ridiculous!" Mrs. Potter spat, but her expression was one of uncertainty. "Mr. Holmes, Miss Cooper came here four months ago, and in that time I have seen a tiresome and silly girl, but a girl who wants to do well and please. I have _certainly _not seen a..."

"Pardon me, Mrs. Potter, I did not say that it was Miss Cooper who deliberately added the extra leaves to Miss Winchester's cup," Holmes said, holding up a hand. "To my recollection, you placed the two cups – Miss Darby's and Miss Winchester's – on a tray on the dining room table, where they sat quite unattended for a few minutes before they were collected. It is perfectly possible that someone in the dining room at that time could have discreetly slipped the extra leaves in to Miss Winchester's tea before she picked it up. And no, Mrs. Potter," he added at the old woman's look, "I am not implying that that person was you. But you did suspect that the poisoning was deliberate?"

I stared as Mrs. Potter's harsh expression withered, and she flung herself down in to a chair at the kitchen table.

"Yes, I did suspect it," she said, and I staggered back. "Although at first, I really _did _think that Florence had just been her natural, dreamy self, and made the tea too strong, I really did! But then..."

"But then what?" Holmes pressed. Mrs. Potter slowly stood up, and went over to a drawer in the kitchen worktop.

"When I cleared up Miss Winchester's shattered cup," she said, opening the drawer, and picking out a jagged piece of white china, "I noticed this. It must have been drawn on the bottom of the cup. I thought nothing of it at first, but then when Lady Ruth died, and there was that number scrawled on her forehead..."

She handed the china shard to Holmes, who carefully took it in his gloved hand to examine it. I also peered at the piece of broken teacup in his palm, and felt a terrible chill sweep through me. The piece seemed to have been the base of the cup; and, painted on it in a strange, waxy red substance, was a number – 14.

"Holmes," I said, well aware that my voice was trembling. "What does it mean?"

Holmes's face had taken on a fierce, stony expression, and he placed the china shard on the kitchen table.

"It means that we are dealing with a very cold, clever, and calculating murderer. Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Potter, I should not have progressed without you. Good morning."

As he turned to leave, however (with myself automatically following in his footsteps,) a rough, elderly gentleman appeared in the French windows. He was quite small in stature, but strongly built, with windswept, white hair, a weather-beaten face, hands mottled with grass stains and scratches from rose thorns, and boots thickly caked with mud. It did not take a person with all the deductive abilities of Holmes to see that this man was a groundskeeper.

"Oh, George," Mrs. Potter said with a sigh, "_do _take off those muddy boots before you come traipsing in here! Mr. Holmes, Miss Winchester," she said, politely introducing us, "this is my husband, George." The three of us exchanged polite words and nods of greeting.

"I've got those lemons for you, Ethel," Mr. Potter said, somewhat proudly presenting a hessian bag of the vibrant yellow fruits to his wife. "Had to walk near nigh half a bloody mile to that greengrocer that I knew had them, and paid handsomely for them too! But I got them, all the same."

Mrs. Potter smiled, and rewarded her husband with a kiss on the cheek.

"Lady Ruth was very fond of my lavender lemonade syrup," she said, almost fondly of her mistress. "She always wanted Sir Edward to build her a greenhouse for growing citrus fruits. They're quite fashionable in France, apparently." Mr. Potter scoffed.

"Bloody foreign fruit!" he said, scornfully. "She always did have very _foreign _tastes, didn't she? Not like Lady Margaret. She always used to come for her walks in the vegetable garden, see what was growing – Even planted herself sometimes. Still does." Holmes's ears pricked up.

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Potter?" he asked.

"Expect you've already heard, sir, about how Lady Margaret's ghost still wanders about the grounds?" Mr. Potter said, with complete sincerity. "She comes to the edge of the vegetable patch. Sometimes I see her when I'm walking the grounds at night. I even find the soil all freshly dug over sometimes, as though she's been planting again."

"A vegetable planting ghost?" Holmes said, dryly. "How very interesting. Well, good morning Mr. Potter, Mrs. Potter."

He exited through the white linen curtains, out on to the terrace, and I quickly shot after him.

"_Holmes!" _I hissed under my breath. "That number on the bottom of my cup, and the number on Lady Ruth's forehead! It's a countdown!"

"I had observed that, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, coolly, as he lit another cigarette.

After a quick glance over my shoulder at the Strange family to be sure none of them were watching, I furiously knocked the cigarette from Holmes's mouth.

"Holmes, won't you listen?" I said, steeling myself in order to look in to Holmes's perturbed, grey eyes. "Lady Ruth was marked with the number 13, and she died; but before that, someone had marked _me _with the number 14, and I was poisoned..."

"Marvellous, Miss Winchester, you have a remarkable talent for observing the obvious..."

"_Holmes!" _I said, earnestly, grabbing his wrist. "Is someone trying to kill me?"

Fixing me with an odd stare, Holmes prised my gripping fingers from his wrist, and dusted down his coat sleeve.

"I think not, Miss Winchester," he said, looking thoughtful. "Rather, our murderer seems to be attempting to disguise his panicked attempt to ensure the success of his plan by associating your poisoning with this so-called curse."

"Plan?" I said, bewildered. "Holmes, what's going on? Everything here's so strange, it just doesn't make any sense!"

"_Think, _Miss Winchester!" Holmes hissed, bending down to look directly in to my face. "You do not think that Lady Ruth's death was really down to some cursed silverware, do you? We are dealing with an ingenious murderer – cold, thoughtful, and very, very cunning. This murder was most likely planned months ago, with the intention of disguising it as something as ridiculous as the act of an evil spirit. The usual silverware is stolen, so that the family are forced to use the supposedly cursed silverware. Three people are invited to dinner, so as to ensure the number of thirteen that the curse requires. But then, of course, you arrive at the last moment..."

"...So they had to make sure I was absent from dinner," I said, as a feeling of realisation crept over me. "Holmes, that's...brilliant."

Holmes waved away my compliment with a dismissive hand, but the veiled look of pleasure on his face was all too obvious.

"Yes, well...I grew suspicious when it appeared that Miss Darby was unaffected by the poison. Obviously, the extra leaves had only been added to one cup, so as to ensure the absence of one person at dinner, it was not a difficult thing to deduce. You were merely unfortunate enough to select the cup that you did. What concerns me now, however, is just how far our murderer wishes to take his little game of numbers."

"What do you mean?" I asked, with a mounting sense of dread.

"You said it yourself, Miss Winchester – The numbers are a countdown."

"You mean twelve more people are going to die?" I cried in horror.

Holmes gave me a firm look and shushed me, as a few members of the Strange family curiously looked up.

"Hush now, Miss Winchester! Come. There is something that I have been avoiding, which can unfortunately wait no longer."

"Where are Mycroft and Watson?" I asked, as I followed him across the terrace.

"Keeping Inspector Douglas at bay for me. They have led him on a wild goose chase across the grounds on the pretext that Watson saw someone running away from the house last night. He is not at all suited to lying, so I asked Mycroft to assist him. Ah, Miss Strange." Holmes stopped before Miss Strange and her easel, and smiled, pleasantly at her. "A very lovely work, you have something of a gift."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Miss Strange said, setting down her brush, and giving Holmes a suspicious look. "Although I don't believe you came over here to admire my painting, did you?" Holmes bowed his head at the lady's observant nature.

"May Miss Winchester and I speak with you privately for a moment? It is quite urgent."

With a quick glance at her family, Miss Strange stood up, and led myself and Holmes indoors to the drawing room, where she turned, arms folded, to face us.

"What's this all about, Mr. Holmes?" she said, somewhat irritably. Holmes's expression was grave and serious.

"Miss Strange, I am about to be extremely blunt with you, and I realise that such a question may trigger a hostile response. However, in light of the circumstances, I ask you to be direct and, above all, honest with your answer. It is just as much in your interest as it is in mine."

Miss Strange's eyes were icy and unwavering.

"Many people will tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I am always direct and honest," she said, evenly. "You may ask me anything you wish."

"Did you steal the Tsarina Alexandra's necklace?"


	14. Chapter 13

Miss Strange's grip tightened, viciously around her elbows, until her knuckles turned a bright, livid white. I could see that she was fighting to keep her face impeccably icy, but her expression twitched every now and then to show the emotion that she was hiding underneath – A mixture of anger and fear. Finally, after a long, intense pause, she gave her answer;

"No."

"But you certainly saw who did?"

"No, I did not."

Holmes gave a quick, sharp bark of annoyance.

"Miss Strange, please do not insult my intelligence by attempting to lie to me! I _know_ that you went to your brother's safe and opened it – There were traces of your perfume left behind. Now, either you will tell me why you opened the safe, or I shall haul you up before Inspector Douglas on charges of theft and murder!"

A fleeting expression of terror passed across Miss Strange's face, but it was quickly replaced with a look of defiance.

"I did not kill my sister-in-law, Mr. Holmes," she said, coolly. "I may not be sorry that she is dead, but I would never have killed her. Or perhaps you think I intended to bring that spirit in to the room? Perhaps you think I'm a witch who summons up demons..?"

"I have no time for your fantasies, Miss Strange!" Holmes near roared, and I stepped back in surprise, for I had never seen him lose his temper like this. "I am concerned with facts, not ridiculous superstitions, and childish parlour games! You will answer me directly – Did you open your brother's safe on the night of the theft of the Tsarina's jewels?"

"No."

"Miss Strange..!"

"It was already open."

There was a ringing pause, and Miss Strange went across to the settee and sat down in a defeated manner. I watched in what I can only describe as awe, as Holmes once again cloaked his expression with his stern, frosty demeanour, and the violent emotion that I had seen not moments before melted away, as though it was never even there.

"So," he said, evenly, "you went to take the jewels for yourself, but found that someone had been there before you?"

Silence.

"Yes," Miss Strange said, quietly.

"And I take it that it was sometime in the middle of the night, when the rest of the household was asleep, that you took your opportunity, and stole down to Sir Edward's study to steal the gems that would fund a new life for yourself and your lover?"

Miss Strange's face whitened, and she gripped at the sofa beneath her.

"_How did you know..?_"

"It is often the case," Holmes said. "And why else should your former husband be so vindictive as to leave you utterly destitute and dependant on your brother after the divorce proceedings? But now, Miss Strange, it is time to reveal the truth. Tell me all, and I swear that not one word of this shall reach the Inspector or your family."

There was something quite different about Clara Strange now. The wall of ice that seemed always to surround her had now broken down to reveal nothing more than a timid, vulnerable young girl sheltering inside, and her voice seemed changed almost beyond recognition as she began to tell her story;

"It was just as you said, Mr. Holmes. My husband left me practically penniless after our divorce, all because I had found someone who I truly loved, who adored me and appreciated me in a way that he never had..." She glanced up at Holmes, and he seemed to give her some sort of signal which she smiled, gratefully at, and then went on; "We needed money to get away, to start again – And that was when I remembered the jewels that Edward kept in his safe, which he almost never opened. I knew that he wouldn't notice their disappearance until it was too late, and I would be long gone – And in any case, it wasn't as though he needed them. I discovered a gentleman, through a few contacts, who was a collector of precious jewels, and who offered me a handsome price for the necklace. I felt that I was on the threshold of a new, better life. But then that messenger came from the Palace.

I realised that if I took the gems now, it would be noticed in a heartbeat, and the entire house would be turned upside down in search of them. And Ruth was squawking to get her portrait painted with them before they were sent away – If anyone would make a noise over the disappearance of the jewels, it would be her! But I had no choice – I simply _had _to get them and hide them before they were sent back to Russia! So, that night, once everyone had gone to bed, I slipped downstairs, and made for Edward's study...When I suddenly heard a clatter."

Holmes's head jerked up, and he looked at Miss Strange, intently.

"You heard someone?" he said, eagerly.

"Yes – In the direction of the terrace. I glanced behind me, and saw their shadow on the wall where the moonlight struck it, so I dashed behind the staircase, and waited until they were gone."

"And this shadow," Holmes hurried over to the settee, and sat down beside Miss Strange; "Did it belong to a man or a woman?"

"I couldn't say, Mr. Holmes," Miss Strange said, regretfully. "You see, they carried a large sack of something on their back, so I couldn't see their form clearly."

An idea sprang to life in my head, and I shot a wild look at Holmes, and found myself met with the exact same gaze of realisation.

"A sack?" he said, intrigued. "Miss Strange, this noise that you heard as you came down the stairs; would you describe it?"

"There wasn't much to it, Mr. Holmes. A metallic sound, that's all I can say. Well, once I was sure the person had quite gone, I rushed to Edward's study, and made for the safe. I knew the combination, of course – Everyone in the house knows it! But when I got there, I found the door to the safe wide open, and the jewels already gone. In a panic, I locked up the safe, and then fled upstairs to my room, and said nothing about it when Eddie discovered the jewels missing the next morning. Well, I have told you the truth, Mr. Holmes," Miss Strange said, resuming her usual, icy demeanour. "May I go now?"

A curious look had come in to Holmes's eyes, a look that I had only glimpsed in them once or twice before. It was the same look that I had seen in him when I had attempted to question him on his childhood – A truly chilling look of deep, suppressed horror, that told me at once that something Miss Strange had said had unsettled him.

"Holmes?" I said, gently, taking a step towards him.

In an instant, he snapped out of his horrified trance, and turned to Miss Strange with his gravest expression.

"Miss Strange, the buyer to whom you were planning to sell the Tsarina's jewels – What was his name?"

"I was never told his name, Mr. Holmes," Miss Strange replied. "He communicated with me through his associates. All I knew was that he was willing to do a discreet transaction, and pay a very considerable amount of money for the gems – I was never introduced to him."

"I see." I had never seen Holmes's expression so dark as he rose from the settee. "Thank you, Miss Strange, you have been a great help. Come along, Miss Winchester."

Although I did not appreciate being told to 'come along', I nevertheless followed Holmes out of the drawing room, intrigued by both what we had discovered from Miss Strange, and by Holmes's rather sombre attitude.

"You think that the person Miss Strange heard was the person who stole the jewels, Holmes?" I asked, eagerly.

"Yes indeed, Miss Winchester, and undoubtedly the person who stole the silverware also. You heard what Miss Strange said – She heard a metallic clatter, and observed the shadow of a person carrying a large sack out to the terrace. We know that the silverware was stolen as part of the murder, so the murderer must also have stolen the Tsarina's jewels. But _why?_"

I blinked at him.

"Because they're jewels worth a ridiculous fortune?" I suggested. Holmes shot me an irritable look.

"No, Miss Winchester, this crime was motivated by hate, not money. It was hate that fuelled all those months of planning, a lust for the blood of a deeply loathed enemy."

"Well, that could be anyone in the house!" I said, dismally. "Everyone in the family hated Lady Ruth, except for Sir Edward, of course. Unless," I added as a thought occurred to me, "he discovered that Lady Ruth really _did _murder his first wife?"

"A theory that I had been contemplating," Holmes said, fixing a corner of the entrance hall with the intense, thoughtful stare that was characteristic of him. "Unfortunately, we do not have the essential details of her death with which to begin an investigation – Mycroft says merely that she died of a debilitating illness."

"Perhaps we should ask her ghost?" I suggested with a laugh.

To my surprise, Holmes's eyes slowly widened to the size of an owl's, and his face took on a look of excitable energy that nearly frightened me.

"Of course!" he said, in a keen, cutting whisper. "Out on to the terrace! Towards..! Miss Winchester?" he said, urgently turning to me. "It is a waning moon tonight, is it not?"

"I think so," I said with a frown.

"Excellent. Would you perhaps meet me outside on the terrace at about midnight tonight? I would ask Watson, but I fear that my having put him through the harrowing ordeal of lying to a police officer, aswell as sending him traipsing across a ten acre estate with a bad leg will have left him unable to help, let alone rather unwilling."

"Why?" I asked, looking at Holmes with the familiar sense of dread and excitement building within me. "What are we going to do?"

"Solve at least one of the many dark mysteries that are lurking within this house," Holmes said, fetching his coat and hat from the hat stand that stood near the door to the terrace. Then, catching sight of my rather reluctant expression, he added, "Of course, I shall quite understand if you feel that you are still too frail to embark on such a task..."

"_Frail?_" I spat with outrage. "Holmes, I've never felt healthier!"

"Very well then. Will you make my excuses at dinner? I shall be in the village for most of the day."

"Doing _what?_" I said, despairingly, as he made his way to the front door. "Holmes, _please _tell me what's going on here!"

Holmes paused in the doorway, and glanced back at me.

"Miss Winchester, curiosity is really a most unattractive thing in a woman." And he left the house.

Holmes did not return for the rest of the day, and although to my eyes there had been no clue as to exactly where he was going or what he was doing, Mycroft could evidently read his younger brother's motives like a large print book.

"If I know Sherlock – and I do, a great deal more than he is aware – he will be ruthlessly scouring that closely-knit village community for information, particularly regarding this collector of jewels you say he appeared so concerned about. Any strangers passing through the area, the villagers will have noticed them without fail. Did he say," Mycroft added, looking at me, "just _why _this fellow was so important?"

"He didn't say anything at all," I said with a sigh. Mycroft puffed, wearily, and took a sip of wine.

"Provided he doesn't go gallivanting off on one of his dangerous excursions, I shall be quite happy to let him go enquiring after whoever he likes," he said, resignedly. I smiled, a little unsteadily. I had decided not to tell either Mycroft or Watson of Holmes's planned midnight adventure.

After dinner, I sat in the drawing room for a while with Eve, Mrs. Strange, and Miss Darby (Miss Strange went to her room early, claiming to have a headache, although I suspected that she was embarrassed to be in the same room as me,) and spent a rather entertaining hour being shown how to curtsey properly by Eve, before heading upstairs to bed.

"Mr. Holmes has been gone a while," Eve commented, as we mounted the stairs together. "Is he not coming back tonight?"

"Who knows?" I muttered, shaking my head, before bidding her goodnight on the landing.

Once in my room, I locked the door, and changed out of my evening dress, but did not prepare for bed. Instead, I looked in my wardrobe, and put on a green and brown walking dress (since it was evident from our conversation that Holmes and I would be journeying outside,) turned down my lamp so that the light could not be seen under the door, and waited. The house soon fell silent – so silent that I could hear the grandfather clock chiming downstairs in the entrance hall – and I sat, expectantly on my window seat, nervously throwing glances out of the window and at the carriage clock on my bedside table, as I waited for the hour of twelve to arrive.

It was an especially dark night, as the moon had waned to a slender crescent, and the shadows without were vast, and a deep, velvety black. I shuddered at the thought of having to walk outside in those shadows; but just then, a soft noise outside my door drew my attention. I glanced at the clock, wondering if perhaps it was Holmes, but found that it was still only a quarter to twelve. And besides, why would Holmes come up to my room when he had told me to meet him on the terrace? Curiously, I stood up, and crept over to the door, placing my ear against it so as to listen better to the sound. It took me a moment to realise it, but the sound seemed to be the rustling of a satin skirt. Though I wondered who could be roaming the house at this hour, some instinct within me urged me not to open the door, so I patiently returned to the window seat, and waited for midnight.

When it finally came around, I fastened my black cloak around me in preparation for the cold night air, and then cautiously opened my door. The landing was dark and deserted, with no sign of the person I had apparently heard – Perhaps I had merely imagined it? Silently making my way down the stairs in to the hauntingly dark, Gothic entrance hall, I looked about for the door that led out on to the terrace, fearful that I might not be able to find it in the darkness (or worse still, that I might collide with the hat stand near it.) Luckily, there was just enough moonlight coming from outside to illuminate the stained-glass panels in the door, casting their jewel-bright, guiding colours on to the carpet. I tentatively made my way towards the door...And shrieked in terror as a hand suddenly lunged from the shadows, and grasped my shoulder.

Another hand closed over my mouth to stifle the scream, and I was just about to kick savagely at anything I could reach, when I looked up and saw Holmes's pale, aquiline features looking down at me, his lips pursed in a stern expression as he shushed me.

"_Holmes!_" I hissed, furiously, still trembling as he took his hand from my mouth. "I nearly died of fright!"

"Then you had best steal yourself for this next sight, Miss Winchester," Holmes whispered, ominously, as, like some sinister doorman, he held open the door to the terrace.

I stepped out in to the dark night, and waited for my eyes to accustom to the gloom so that I could see what Holmes meant. As I peered in to the distance, I caught sight of a pinprick of flickering light, steadily making its way across the jet black lawn. I realised that it was the light of a lantern. A great weight dropped within me, and I suddenly felt my blood run icy cold, as the figure that carried the lantern gradually emerged from the shadows, as though materialising from the darkness itself, and was illuminated by the dim moonlight. It was Lady Margaret Strange.

Even from a distance, there was no doubting the striking similarity that the spectre bore to the portrait in the drawing room – Slender and graceful, with a thick mane of fair curls, and wearing the exact same sky blue dress that the innkeeper of the Black Horse had said was her favourite, along with a thick, white mantle. Before I had time to comment on what I was seeing, however, Holmes suddenly took my trembling hand in his.

"Quickly, Miss Winchester!" he said, pulling me along with him.

"We're not going after it?" I protested; but that seemed to be exactly what we were doing, as Holmes led me swiftly across the lawn, heading in the same direction as the apparent spirit of Lady Margaret Strange.

We ran through the night, turning a corner of the house, and suddenly finding ourselves amidst what I can only describe as a fairy garden, full of some of the strangest and most beautiful plants I had ever seen, all of which seemed to radiate some kind of magical aura. This must have been where Mrs. Potter grew her herbs. Holmes gestured with his cane to a particularly large bush, bearing a crop of gleaming, deep purple berries, and bell-shaped, dusky purple flowers.

"_Atropa Belladonna_," he whispered to me. "No doubt planted souly for its beauty – Though a very deceiving beauty it is..."

He stopped suddenly, as the sound of rustling skirts and approaching footsteps alerted us to the presence of Lady Margaret. Coaxing me forwards with a slow gesture, he began to creep towards the belladonna plant like a tiger closing in on its prey, his steps falling with a phantom-like silence, that even the ghost itself seemed strangely unable to achieve. From behind the plant, I caught a glimpse of a blue satin skirt, and froze; but as I looked at it, I noticed something rather odd, and a frown began to creep across my face. From what little I could see of her, Lady Margaret's apparition seemed to be surprisingly solid and physical looking...

With a cat-like bound, Holmes leapt around the belladonna plant, and out of sight, and I almost started out of my skin as there came the sound of a young woman shrieking with surprise. Hurrying around to the other side of the plant, I was then met with the bizarre sight of our mysterious, lantern carrying, blue-clad figure (clearly, as I looked at her now at close quarters, not a spirit,) kicking, and struggling, and flailing her arms, while Holmes stood, triumphantly, holding her by her mantle.

"Got you!" he cried, yanking the figure back. "And now, Miss Winchester, if you will observe..."

He twisted the figure round to face me, and I gawped at her face in the dim moonlight.

"_Eve!_" I gasped.


	15. Chapter 14

**Note from Agatha: All I can say is that whoever is still reading this story is INCREDIBLY patient!**

**

* * *

**Holmes's slow, contemplating step creaked, painfully on the floorboards as he paced up and down the room in deep thought, one hand at his pipe and the other at his hip. He had been pacing for nearly ten minutes now, and as I sat observing him from my seat on the other side of the room, my eyes travelling back and forth as though I were a spectator at an incredibly slow tennis match, I wondered whether he would ever stop. Perched beside me on the purple velvet loveseat where I sat was Eve Strange, also completely absorbed in deep thought, her hands clasped in her lap, and her face turned downwards. After a few more minutes of struggling in Holmes's grasp, and denying she knew anything, she had finally seemed to accept that there was no getting away from him, and had come quietly back in to the house, and up to Holmes's room, where we were all now gathered. In the silence, I glanced at her (whilst being careful not to appear as though I was staring,) and took in her appearance.

At close quarters, it was astonishing to think that so many people could have mistaken the girl for Lady Margaret Strange. The blue satin dress that she wore was clearly too large for her, and the long skirts had been hoisted up with some rather ugly bundles of ribbon, presumably to stop them from trailing in the grass. Her hair – a much darker blonde than her mother's pale golden waves – fell like thick, curly sheep's wool on to her shoulders, and, although it had been difficult to tell from Lady Margaret's portrait, I got the impression that she had been a good few inches taller than the height at which her daughter now stood. And yet even I had fallen for the illusion, as I had seen Eve making her way across the grounds in her mother's dress.

"Well, Miss Strange," Holmes said suddenly, making both Eve and I start; "I feel I must congratulate you. Your scheme for petty revenge against your stepmother had a great deal of creativity to it."

Eve suddenly looked up, her face blanched with horror.

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, breathlessly.

An idea suddenly came to me, and I stared at Eve for a moment, and then glanced, questioningly up at Holmes. He exchanged a brief look with me – A look full of delight and mischief that set his grey eyes glimmering, before being quickly suppressed, and I knew that he was up to something.

"I think you know what I mean, Miss Strange," he said, darkly.

With a suffocating gasp, Eve leapt up and scrambled in to the middle of the room with all the energy of a mad woman, her face contorted with terror, and I thought for one horrifying moment that she was going to attack Holmes. As it was, she grabbed the front of his waistcoat, and I had just risen from my seat to run over and pull her back, when she half dropped to her knees, and burst in to a flood of shameless tears.

"I didn't kill her, Mr. Holmes!" she cried, hysterically. "I didn't kill her, I didn't! Yes, I targeted her, I'll admit it! I wanted to make her miserable and afraid, but if you only understood, you'd know that what I did was fair and just..."

Holmes grabbed her wrists, and yanked her to her feet with a disgusted expression on his face.

"I can see nothing fair and just in pretending to be your mother's ghost, Miss Strange," he snorted, contemptuously; "Creating rumours of her wandering spirit, terrifying your father in to believing that his lost wife was trapped in purgatory, convincing your younger brother that the mother he had never known was still with him..."

The connecting door on the other side of the room opened suddenly, and a confused and dishevelled looking Watson appeared.

"Holmes, what on earth is going on?" he said after taking in the scene. "It's almost one o'clock in the morning!"

"Precisely why you should be in bed, my dear Watson," Holmes said, casually, while Eve Strange stood wiping the tears from her face. "Not to worry, we are almost finished here. Miss Winchester and I have just made a very interesting discovery, which we shall inform you of in the morning."

Watson opened his mouth to protest, but wisely seemed to think better of it, and simply shook his head, and retreated back in to his room. Holmes then turned, decisively to Eve.

"Now," he said, in a very long, drawn out, but much gentler manner; "It is time for you to tell me all, Miss Strange. You say that you did not kill your stepmother...and indeed, I do think you quite incapable of murder. But you have behaved appallingly, and I must warn you that if you attempt to conceal anything, I shall be forced to tell your father of this charade."

Eve's eyes widened with terror, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Holmes held up a hand.

"Speak frankly, and it shall not come to that," he swore. "The tale of your mother's wandering spirit shall forever remain a mystery. Now, perhaps you would like to sit down? I think that I am quite correct in my suppositions, so you need only reply yes or no to what I ask you, and we shall see if I am right."

I took Eve's trembling hand as she came to sit back down on the loveseat, and she smiled, gratefully at me. Holmes put down his pipe, and stood in the middle of the room, looking thoughtful.

"I would say that this all began two months ago, when your stepmother's jewellery began to disappear of its own accord, is that correct?"

Eve looked at him with a face like that of a stunned deer, but her reply was quick and honest; "Yes."

"And I take it that you were behind the disappearances?" Holmes queried. Eve hung her head.

"Yes," she repeated, in a small voice.

"Just as I suspected. One by one, you took items of your stepmother's jewellery, and, in the dead of night – preferably a night when there was no moon in the sky, and you were unlikely to be seen – you slipped out in to the grounds, and buried whatever you had taken on the edge of the vegetable patch, where Mr. Potter often observed your handiwork, and mistook it for the rather bizarre activities of a ghost."

Eve stared at Holmes for a moment (I could not blame her, as I found myself doing the same!)

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," she said. "That's exactly it."

Holmes nodded, with a distinct lack of surprise on his face, as though the whole thing had been quite obvious.

"And your motive for the theft was merely to spite your loathed stepmother by depriving her of her jewellery?"

Eve suddenly flew from her seat.

"_It wasn't her jewellery!_" she cried, passionately. "It was mine! _She _took it from _me_!"

I sat back, startled in my seat, but Holmes seemed relatively undisturbed by the outburst.

"How so?" he asked, coolly.

Eve's voice was firm and dignified as she replied, fighting back tears; "It was my mother's jewellery. When she died, it should have come to me, but _that woman _took it all for herself! She insisted that my father give it to her. I didn't steal from her, Mr. Holmes – I would never steal from anyone. I simply took back what was mine – Mine, and my mother's. I was doing it for Mother's sake almost! That was why I wore her dress." A peculiar smile came to her face; a smile which filled her eyes with a romantic, wistful light. "I felt that, if poor Mother could not come to enact revenge on that hateful woman herself, then at least I could on her behalf!"

"From what I hear of your mother's character, Miss Strange," Holmes said, rather icily, "she was not the sort to seek revenge."

Eve blinked at Holmes suddenly, as though she had come out of a trance, and a crimson blush flooded her face.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said, looking at the floor in shame. "I _have _done wrong, but you must understand, I chose evil to fight against evil. I simply couldn't sit there ignoring the truth about Mother's death anymore! It was eating me up!"

Holmes and I exchanged a glance across the room, and I followed Holmes's movement as he leaned forward to mutter to Eve, as though he thought the very walls were listening;

"Do you mean to say that you believe Lady Ruth murdered your mother, Miss Strange?"

Eve looked up, her eyes burning with tears of anger.

"Don't you?" she said, in barely more than a whisper. "I know that Ruth wanted my father from the day she first met him. And whatever Ruth wanted..."

"She was inclined to get, by any means necessary," Holmes said with a nod, and I felt a chill suddenly sweep in to the room. "But how could your mother's murder have gone unnoticed, Miss Strange? Surely a post-mortem was carried out..?"

"Father insisted there shouldn't be one," Eve said, bitterly. "He said that Mother had suffered enough in her final few months – Although I'm sure Ruth put the idea in to his head!"

The familiar, sharp look came in to Holmes's eyes, and I could almost hear the thoughts that were undoubtedly racing through his mind.

"Miss Strange," he said, in his sweetest tones, placing a hand on Eve's shoulder; "I realise that this will be very difficult for you, but will you please describe your mother's illness to me? The information could be vital."

Eve's expression faltered momentarily, but she had soon gathered herself, and took a deep breath.

"The doctor thought it was food poisoning at first," she said, quietly. "He gave her medicine for it, and Mrs. Potter made dozens of her tinctures, but nothing seemed to work. She went on for months with constant vomiting, and stomach cramps, and terrible cold sweats – She couldn't walk, and could barely eat a thing. Eventually she had a seizure. She was too weak to survive it..."

Eve choked, and pressed her fist to her mouth, but her training as a lady obviously overcame her emotion, and she kept her composure. Holmes, meanwhile, had gone slightly pink in the face with the effort of trying to suppress some outburst of emotion that I could see building in his eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Strange," he said, demurely. "You may go now. You have been most helpful."

"I'm glad, Mr. Holmes," Eve said with a smile. She made to leave the room, but paused in the doorway, looking back at Holmes. "And, I trust you won't mention any of this to..?"

"Not a word, Miss Strange, I promise you," Holmes said, solemnly, and Eve smiled, gratefully again, and closed the door behind her.

Holmes made straight for his bedside table, took up his black clay pipe (the one he always chose when he had some significant brainwork to do,) lit it hastily, and then – to only my slight surprise – flung himself down on to the carpet, and proceeded to gaze, listlessly at the ceiling. Baffled, I glanced from him to the doorway that Eve had just exited through, and then back again.

"Well?" I asked him.

Holmes remained silent for a few moments more, before very graciously consenting to look at me.

"Well what?" he asked in reply. Bristling slightly, I stood up, and took a few steps towards him, looking down at him where he lay, with my hands on my hips.

"You said," I began, in a very deliberate scolding tone, "that whoever it was posing as the ghost of Lady Margaret was also the murderer!"

"I said nothing of the kind," Holmes said, casually, looking up at me with infuriatingly demure eyes, as curling grey smoke streamed from his pipe.

"You _implied _it!" I insisted, glaring down at him. "This morning, when you left the house, you said that whoever had stolen the necklace had also stolen the silverware, and whoever had stolen the silverware was the murderer. Then you went running off when I mentioned Lady Margaret's ghost, as though it meant something."

"It did," said Holmes. "My original theory was that the appearance of the ghost of Lady Margaret Strange was merely a cover for whoever had taken the Tsarina's gems and the silverware, and that both missing items were therefore hidden somewhere in the grounds. A trip to the village, however, quickly dispelled that theory."

"How?" I demanded.

"I discovered at the Black Horse inn that Lady Margaret's apparition was only ever seen on clouded or moonless nights, such as tonight. Miss Strange took great precautions not to be seen on her outings, but that is near impossible in a village such as this – Anything unusual is noticed without fail. On the night that the Tsarina's jewels were taken, along with the silverware, it was an especially clear night, so the moonlight was powerful – You remember Miss Clara Strange saw that shadow so clearly on the wall? It would have been distinctly out of character for the ghost of Lady Margaret to venture out on such a night, and the innkeeper's boy, Sam, who regularly watches for the ghost, says he saw nothing. So I reasoned that this ghost was not our murderer..."

"But if you knew that Lady Margaret's ghost wasn't the murderer," I said, exasperatedly, "why did you drag me out on to the terrace at midnight, so that we could chase her through the grounds in the dark?"

On the carpet, Holmes shrugged, and blew smoke rings from his pipe.

"I wanted to see if my second theory was correct," he said; "That the ghost of Lady Margaret was in fact Eve Strange, burying her stepmother's missing jewellery. Psychologically, I knew that she would see such an act to be in line with her morals, and not truly stealing. The Tsarina's jewels, however, were not hers, and she had no reason to take the silverware, as she could not possibly be the murderer. There was only one remaining possibility as to what she was doing in the grounds at night."

"So Eve's not the murderer, or the thief?"

"Certainly not."

"Then we've learned nothing!" I cried with frustration. "We still don't have a hint as to who the murderer is, or where they hid the jewels!"

A broad, slow smile crept across Holmes's features.

"On the contrary, Miss Winchester," he said, his eyes glimmering; "I have not told you all that I learned in the village today."

I looked down at his excitable expression, and suddenly felt as though we already had the murderer in our grasp, and the jewels on their way to Buckingham Palace.

"What else?" I asked, eagerly. Holmes jumped up from the floor, and made for his mouse-coloured dressing gown, which was draped over the back of a chair.

"All will become clear in the morning, Miss Winchester," he said, infuriatingly, shedding his jacket, and putting the dressing gown on. "It is very late, and you should really be getting to bed. We may have a very active day ahead of us."

"Oh, no!" I said, firmly. "Holmes, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what you know! Has it got something to do with the jewel collector Clara Strange was going to sell the Tsarina's necklace to?"

To my surprise – and somewhat to my horror – Holmes flinched.

"I would prefer that you did not mention him for the moment, Miss Winchester," he said, severely. "He is not a cause for concern at present, but I feel that he shall be weighing much upon my mind."

"Is he in the village?" I asked, with a mounting sense of dread.

"He was. The landlord of a local boarding house tells me he spent four nights there recently. A Mr. Holmes, apparently."

My heart leapt, and nearly came to a stop, but Holmes seemed rather amused.

"He used your name?" I breathed. "But why would...How can he even know that you're here?"

"We have encountered him before, Miss Winchester, and it would seem that he has taken an interest in me."

It took me a few moments to realise what Holmes meant, and when my mind finally did grasp the identity of this man, a gush of horror swept through me, and I pressed a tentative hand to my ribs, feeling the slight twinge of the scar beneath my dress.

"_Him?_" I whispered, breathing deeply so as to steady my hammering heart. "The man who employed Smith? The man who tried to have you shot?"

Holmes's gaze shifted to the dark window, and he looked out at the inky black night.

"His territory is far larger than I had anticipated," he said, his expression cast in shadows, and his voice low like thunder. "I'm sure he has nothing to do with the tragedy that has taken place here. He was merely seeking to gain another pretty set of jewels for his illegal collection...And taking an opportunity to observe us, no doubt."

"But Holmes, he's dangerous!" I cried, trying to repress the images that were coming in to my mind – The darkened Royal Albert Hall, the body of a richly dressed gentleman on the stage, my own blood rolling across the floor... "Shouldn't we tell Clara Strange to get away?"

"Don't excite yourself, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, steering me towards the door. "Any actions we take shall have to wait until tomorrow. Incidentally, I should like you to do something for me...Do you think you could visit Miss Eve Strange tomorrow, and ask her to show you exactly where she buried Lady Ruth's jewellery? I believe she was attempting to retrieve it tonight, and it would certainly do no harm to have the jewels returned to the house."

"Yes Holmes, but..."

"Thank you. Now, you had best get to bed. It would be better for you to get to the vegetable patch early, so as you are not observed. We did promise Miss Strange. Well, off to be bed with you, child! I require time to think."

I suddenly found myself out in the dark hallway, with Holmes closing the bedroom door behind me. A very curious thing about Sherlock Holmes was that he always had to think alone.


	16. Chapter 15

The next morning found me sitting down to the most peculiar breakfast I had ever had in my life. Up and down the table sat the Strange family, all still swathed in black, yet most of them without an ounce of pity in their hearts for the woman they were supposed to be mourning for. Sir Edward held his usual position at the head of the table, stirring his porridge, listlessly, his face almost as grey as the food in his bowl. Eve had maintained a positively scarlet face ever since I had walked in to the room, and Miss Darby kept expressing concerns that she had a fever, and offering her glasses of water. Miss Strange maintained an absolutely icy and immovable demeanour, although her eyes never once looked up from her boiled egg, and only Mrs. Strange was doing her best to make some small conversation, though her husband barely responded to her. Watson sat, looking noticeably uncomfortable, on one side of me, while Mycroft sat on the other, quite contentedly dipping soldiers in to his boiled eggs, and helping himself to enormous portions and scrambled egg and ham.

"Will your brother not be joining us for breakfast, Mr. Holmes?" Miss Darby asked, looking towards the one empty seat that remained at the table.

"I haven't laid eyes on him all morning," Mycroft replied, chewing on a piece of toast; "Although I did notice the very smogs of London pouring out from under his door as I passed it! Dr. Watson?"

"Holmes is taking breakfast in his room," Watson said, adding quietly with a much-tried sigh, "It was as much as I could do to persuade him to take breakfast at all! I do apologise, Sir Edward, but he claims that he is very close to solving the case."

"Anything that helps to bring justice for my poor wife, Dr. Watson," Sir Edward said, meekly, and Miss Darby placed a comforting hand on his arm. "That is all that matters. As for the jewels...Oh, those wretched jewels! They've brought us nothing but misery! I shall be quite happy if I never see them again!"

"You've got to think of the country too, Eddie," Mr. Strange said, rather severely. "There's a great deal at stake here, besides Ruth."

I felt in the air that another argument was brewing, and Miss Darby apparently sensed it too, for she quickly rang the bell, calling Florence to come in and clear the breakfast things.

"Florence, where's Mrs. Potter?" she asked, noticing that the girl was alone.

"She begs your pardon, Miss Darby, but she desperately needed to talk with Mr. Holmes about the case," Florence said, looking almost excited as she spoke. "You see, Mrs. Potter had found a clue!"

I dropped my spoon, and looked up at Florence in astonishment, along with the rest of the table.

"Ethel, found a clue?" Mr. Strange said, with a rather dry smile. "Who would have thought the old girl was one for detective work!"

"What exactly has she found, Florence?" Eve asked, a little anxiously (over what, I could well imagine.)

"She didn't say exactly, miss, but I saw her running upstairs with Mr. Holmes's breakfast on a tray, and one of the glasses used for the drinks on the terrace yesterday."

Bemused glances were exchanged all around the table.

"A glass?" Mr. Strange said, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded. "From the drinks we had on the terrace?"

"Yes, sir," Florence said, nodding, eagerly. "I recognised it because it was one of the lilac-tinted goblets. Mrs. Potter always serves her lavender lemonade syrup in those goblets, she says they compliment it..."

"That is _enough!_" Sir Edward said in a strained voice. "I will not have this talked of like a plotline from a yellow backed novel! Florence, please clear the table, and get back to your duties!"

Florence's stature seemed to shrink.

"Yes, sir," she said, timidly, clearing away the tablecloth.

Everyone made a hasty retreat from the dining room following Sir Edward's outburst, but I managed to catch up with Eve Strange, and discreetly tap her on the arm.

"Eve, Mr. Holmes thinks it would be best if you and I retrieved your stepmother's jewellery from the vegetable patch. He wants us to bring it back to the house."

Eve's unusual blue and brown eyes widened with terror.

"You're not going to tell..?"

"No, no, he thinks it would be best to bring it back, that's all. We can leave it somewhere in the house for someone to find, you wouldn't need to tell anyone about...about your mother's ghost."

Eve looked uncertain for a moment, but seemed to overcome her doubts, and smiled, gratefully.

"I had wanted to bring it back myself," she said with relief. "I'm sorry I ever took it. It was a foolish thing to do. What time should we go out to get it? I'm practicing my piano playing and embroidery with Miss Darby until twelve o'clock."

"I'll come to see you at twelve, then," I said. "Tell Miss Darby that we're going for a walk in the grounds."

"An excellent idea, Miss Winchester," said Holmes's voice suddenly, as he came canon-balling down the stairs, hastily throwing on his coat. "Be sure you are not observed. We must not give away the slightest hint to our murderer that we are hot on their track!"

"Did I hear Mr. Holmes's voice?" Sir Edward appeared suddenly from the dining room, and rushed over to Holmes. "Holmes, Miss Cooper says that Mrs. Potter has given you a clue to the case!"

Holmes's shoulders sagged as he realised he had lost his element of surprise.

"Indeed she has, Sir Edward," he said, taking his gloves from his pocket; "Which is why I am on my way to the village now to fetch our dear friend Inspector Douglas."

Sir Edward's face turned the most extraordinary colour, and his dark eyes seemed to spark as he frantically grabbed Holmes.

"Have you solved it?" he gasped, shaking Holmes a little in his wild eagerness. "Please, Mr. Holmes, I have to know! Do you know who murdered my wife?"

His expression as blank and unyielding as a bare stone wall, Holmes prised Sir Edward's hands away from him.

"All shall be revealed this afternoon, Sir Edward, I assure you," he said. "In the meantime, you must all remain here. I shall not be gone long."

"Take care, Holmes," I offered as he departed (without much response.)

Though Holmes's mysterious manner was growing increasingly more infuriating, and I had half a mind to follow him in to the village to see what was going on (I had secretly followed him on his excursions twice before,) I decided that on this occasion it was better to obey him, and at twelve o'clock, I went to find Eve so that we could retrieve Lady Ruth's jewellery.

Eve's beautiful little room somewhat resembled a bright little garden in the springtime, with vibrant pink roses adorning the wallpaper, and hand-stitched decorations of daffodils, bluebells and lilies embroidered on every bedspread, handkerchief and curtain. Though it was not to my taste, I could not deny that much work had gone in to making the room as bright and charming as possible, and Eve seemed perfectly suited to it, sitting on the little rose-coloured loveseat next to Miss Darby, her black mourning dress exchanged for a slightly less solemn garb of deep blue, embroidered with snowdrops. Miss Darby had shed the black velvet jacket I had seen her wearing at breakfast to reveal a blouse of a rather stunning shade of red, again skilfully embroidered with designs of holly and ivy. Miss Darby, it seemed, was an incredibly skilled at needlework.

"Good day, Miss Winchester," she said as I entered. "We were just talking about you. Eve says she's planned to show you Mrs. Potter's garden. You must see it, it's very lovely."

"Miss Darby loves flowers," Eve said, handing me one of the cushions that her governess had been embroidering. "She says they're excellent subjects for needlework."

I admired the delicate stitching that made up the elegant, bell-shaped flower, and suddenly recognised the design.

"Belladonna," I said. "Holmes showed it to me."

"One of the most beautiful flowers I know," Miss Darby commented. "Mrs. Potter lets me take a few samples from her garden every now and again for my templates. Actually, Eve dear, would you mind collecting me some camomile whilst you're down there? I'd like to start a new design for a handkerchief."

"Yes, Miss Darby," Eve said, curtseying to her governess. She collected her sewing bag, and we made our way out in to the grounds.

"Are you fond of your governess?" I asked Eve, as we made our way around the house, and towards the vegetable patch where the jewellery was buried.

"Of course," Eve replied. "She's been like a second mother to me – Even more so since Mother died. Did you not like your governess?"

"I never had one," I said. "Father tutored me. That's why my curtseys are so atrocious."

Eve laughed, and I was pleased – It was the first time I had seen the poor girl happy since I had arrived.

We soon came to the vegetable patch, and, ducking out of sight behind the Belladonna plant that Miss Darby seemed so fond of, we crept past poles of runner beans, the budding green heads of carrots, and large, striped green marrows, until we came to a small spot where the earth seemed to have been recently dug, and Eve stopped.

"Here it is," she said, pointing to the ground.

"We'll have to dig it up by hand," I said, putting on my gloves that I conveniently had in my dress coat pocket. "Did you bury it very deep?"

"No, just below the surface. It shouldn't be too difficult to find."

I carefully knelt down, but Eve remained half standing as we scrabbled at the earth, tossing handfuls of it aside, until suddenly, I spotted the glimmer of something brilliant white amongst brown compost. Moving more handfuls of earth aside, I eventually found myself looking down in to a shallow hole at a beautiful diamond bracelet. We continued to forage about in the vegetable patch, unearthing, amongst other things, an opal crucifix and a gold ring, set with seven colourful stones – All the items that Lady Ruth had lost over the past two months. Eve made a note of each piece of earth-speckled jewellery that we found, and placed it in her sewing bag, and eventually, we found them all.

"I think that's the last of it," Eve said, adding an emerald brooch to our collection. "The whole wretched lot."

There was a slightly bitter tone to her voice, and I looked up to see her frowning down at the jewel-filled sewing bag, as though it had done something to offend her.

"What's wrong?" I asked. Eve looked up, her eyes filled with an undeniable expression of guilt.

"It _was_ stealing, wasn't it?" she muttered. "I committed a sin in order to spite my stepmother – I stole pretty jewels because I wanted them."

"They were your mother's," I said, reassuringly to her (Sir Edward had expressed how pious his daughter was, and I knew that she would undoubtedly be upset at the thought of doing wrong.) "They were rightfully yours."

Eve still glared at the sewing bag, and eventually thrust it in to my hands.

"Then I can decide what to do with them," she said, "I don't want them. You can have them."

I blinked at her in astonishment, and looked inside the sewing bag. Diamonds, emeralds, pearls, carbuncles...There was no doubt that the sack full of jewels I now held in my hands was worth a small fortune. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me.

"Eve," I said; "If you're giving the jewels to me, may I give then to someone else? Someone who might be in danger, and who desperately needs them?"

"Of course," Eve said with a frown. "But I don't understand, who's in..."

A hideous scream suddenly came tearing up the side of the house from the terrace. My heart leapt in to my mouth, and Eve's face whitened, but the two of us bravely ran across the lawn, until we came to the terrace, and mounted the steps. There was no one to be seen, but the sound of terrified sobbing coming from behind the white linen curtains in the French windows drew us in to the kitchen. What I saw shocked and horrified me. Florence the kitchen girl stood sobbing, frantically next to the kitchen table, looking down at the cold, ashen faced body of Mrs. Ethel Potter, slumped forward in a chair, with her head lying on the table surface, in a gleaming pool of ruby red blood. A large kitchen knife protruded from the back of her neck.

I heard a thud next to me, and looked down to see that Eve had fainted. A moment later, a blur of yelling figures came rushing in to the room, and I vaguely registered being asked by several frantic faces what had happened, before Mycroft's voice boomed through the kitchen like the organ in a church;

"_QUIET!"_

The room was immediately robbed of noise, and Mycroft stood like an enormous grey lion in the middle of the white-faced group, demanding our attention.

"Everyone shall report to the drawing room immediately!" he said. "Dr. Watson, has the young lady fully regained consciousness?"

"Yes, Mycroft, but she needs some brandy for the shock," said Watson, who was supporting the now conscious, but incredibly pale Eve against his left arm.

"Edward, take the poor child out of here. And please have someone get a message to Sherlock at the police station, he'll want to know of this. Dr. Watson, if you would be so kind as to examine the body? And finally, Miss Winchester...Are you alright, my dear?"

I looked up, and felt somewhat put at ease my Mycroft's gentle, smiling face, and I smiled back, and nodded.

"Strong stuff, whatever you're made of, my dear," Mycroft said, with his hand on my shoulder. "Now, Dr. Watson. You're verdict?"

I clenched my teeth, and gripped at the sewing bag behind my back, as I turned back to the grisly sight of Mrs. Potter's body. Watson stood over the poor woman, his hand poised above the blade that had been thrust in to the back of her neck, and I saw that he did not tremble in the slightest.

"Straight through the brain stem," he said, gravely. "No doubt caused a horrible seizure, and death within minutes." He frowned slightly as he looked at the peculiar angle of the knife. "The angle of the blade seems to suggest it was thrown, rather than pushed in...Wait a moment."

Horror shot up my spine, as Watson moved aside Mrs. Potter's blood-matted hair to reveal a scarlet number 12, drawn on to her ashen grey forehead. I met his grave gaze.

"It seems the 'curse' has struck again."

Mycroft, however, was looking only half-interested, and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

"Thrown, eh?" he pondered. "Thrown from where?"

"Not far, judging from the depth of the incision. Only a few feet."

I glanced about the kitchen, and spotted a door, just a few feet from the kitchen table.

"What about here?" I said, going across to the door, and opening it.

"Good God, Miss Winchester, be careful!" Watson said, shooting over, and pulling me back by my arm.

"Not to worry, Dr. Watson, it's just the pantry," Mycroft said, looking inside the small, dark space at the shelves of sweet-smelling jars, and pots covered with cheese clothes. "A very likely place, I should say. Whoever it was must have grabbed the kitchen knife, hidden in here, and waited for the poor woman to turn her back. There's just enough room...for a person with less of a _built _physique, that is."

"But why throw the knife?" Watson said, perplexed, looking between the pantry and the kitchen table. "Why not just creep out once Mrs. Potter had sat down, and thrust the knife in to her back?"

"No blood," Mycroft and I said in unison. Mycroft looked at me with a smile, then continued, "Miss Winchester is quite correct, Dr. Watson. To have stood directly behind Mrs. Potter would have been to ensure at least some amount of blood getting on to the murderer's clothes. From this distance however, our fellow would have been quite safe. There's one thing that I'm beginning to notice in this case, however."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Trickery. Now, let us go to the drawing room, and see if Sir Edward has dispatched that message for Sherlock yet."

Watson looked, uncertainly at Mrs. Potter's body.

"Mycroft," he said, "shouldn't we..?"

"I feel the police will want us to leave her as she is until they arrive, Dr. Watson, and Sherlock will most likely want to have a look at her too. That said, I see no harm in us at least covering the poor lady. Miss Winchester, I believe the linen cupboard is just behind there."

We covered Mrs. Potter with a suitably black tablecloth, and then made our way to the drawing room, where most of the household were gathered.

"He shouldn't have left!" Eve was raving, wildly, with a glass of brandy clutched in her trembling hands. "Mr. Holmes shouldn't have left, the curse has come back to get us..!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Eve!" Mr. Strange said, firmly to his niece. "That said, we have to catch this lunatic, before he picks off each and every one of us! Edward, have you sent that bloody message yet?"

"In a moment, Thomas, Miss Darby and Mortimer are just looking for George, Mycroft said he wanted us all..."

The room looked up as we entered.

"Oh, Mycroft," said Sir Edward, coming towards us. "We're just about to send word for your brother, Miss Darby and Mortimer are just looking for Mr. Potter. We're not sure where he is."

"He'll want to know," Watson said, solemnly. Just then, the austere Mortimer and Miss Darby entered the room.

"Have you found George, Miss Darby?" Sir Edward asked.

I at once noticed that Miss Darby's eyes were filled with tears. She looked at the floor, and Mortimer took a step forward, shielding her from view.

"I'm afraid, sir," the butler said, slowly. "That Mr. Potter is dead."

An electric shock lashed through the room, and I struggled to remain on my feet.

"Dead?" Sir Edward cried. "What on earth do you mean? What's happening here?"

"Miss Darby here found Mr. Potter hanging in the summer house. It seemed, at first, sir, as though he'd committed suicide..."

"Suicide?" Mr. Strange leapt forward. "Straight after the murder of his wife? But that's got to be more than a coincidence! What if it was George? What if he was the one who took the jewels, and..."

"I don't think so, sir," Mortimer interjected.

"And why not, Mortimer, old chap?" Mycroft asked.

"Because there was a number drawn on his forehead, Mr. Holmes. A number drawn in red – 11."


	17. Chapter 16

"_What do you mean he's not coming back?_" I spluttered at Watson. "Where is he?"

"He says he'll be back by eight o'clock this evening," Watson said, despairingly, looking at the piece of paper in his hand. "No word of where he is or what he's doing. He just says that until eight o'clock, no one is to talk to Mycroft, and we are only to go in to the drawing room when he allows us to."

I glanced past Watson, and saw Mycroft leaning against the drawing room door, exchanging a few whispered words with Mortimer the butler. After the message to Holmes had been despatched, I had expected the detective to come running back to Strange Hall with Inspector Douglas in tow; but instead, Holmes had sent our messenger boy back with two letters, one for the household, and one that was marked as being for Mycroft's eyes only. On Holmes's instructions, the rest of us were to leave the drawing room, and were barred from entering it again until Mycroft informed us otherwise, and Mr. and Mrs. Potter's bodies were to be moved to the summer house until the police came to collect them. I shook my head at the absurdity of it all.

"What in the name of heaven is going on here?" I muttered to myself.

Mycroft evidently saw the import of Holmes's bizarre instructions, however, and firmly held up his resolution not to allow anyone in to the drawing room – He even ushered me from the entrance hall when I attempted to sit on the stairs to spy on the drawing room door. The only person that he did allow in, much to my surprise, was Mortimer. Having been unsuccessful in my attempt to watch the drawing room from the staircase, I instead hid myself behind the dining room door, and carefully peered out. I watched as Mycroft whispered, urgently to the butler (I was unfortunately too far away to hear anything that was said,) while Mortimer listened and nodded, importantly, before donning a flat black cap, and leaving the house. I was forced to leave my post when lunch came around (Florence had done her best with a rather salty fish soup, and a platter of leftover cheeses and pâté,) and expected Mycroft to join us; but he solidly maintained his position outside the drawing room.

After everyone had dispersed from around the table, I lingered in the dining room until I heard the sound of the front door. Peering out in to the entrance hall, I saw Mortimer return, carrying – much to my puzzlement – a large, square pane of glass, as though for a window. Mycroft instantly stepped aside, and held the drawing room door open, allowing the man to enter...

"Curious, are we?"

I whirled round to see Clara Strange standing in the doorway of Sir Edward's study (which she had obviously entered, unnoticed by me, as Florence cleared the tablecloth after lunch,) holding a glass of claret in her hand.

"Eddie keeps a few decanters in his cupboard," she said with a smile, holding up her glass. "He has ever since dear Margaret died. Miss Darby sometimes fills them with dandelion and burdock so that he doesn't get drunk. Is there anything happening around the drawing room?"

I peeped back out in to the entrance hall, but Mortimer had disappeared with his strange cargo, and Mycroft was once again keeping guard outside the door.

"No," I said (Miss Strange may not have been the murderer, but I could not allow any part of Holmes's plan to leak out in to the household.) "Mycroft's still keeping watch."

"It's all very peculiar," Miss Strange commented, looking out in to the entrance hall herself. "I don't know what to make of it! We all saw Ruth killed by that spirit before our very eyes, and yet Mr. Holmes seems convinced that she met her death at human hands."

"But you didn't _quite _see it, did you?" I pointed out, feeling a sudden, burning urge to defend Holmes. "The fire went out, no one saw what happened. And besides, Holmes believes that she was poisoned before she entered the parlour – Before that apparition even appeared..."

"But it did still appear, didn't it?" Miss Strange said, relentlessly. "Perhaps poor Ruth _was_ murdered by someone in this house, and perhaps it was the same person who killed Mr. and Mrs. Potter. But that spirit still appeared to us in the parlour, Miss Winchester. It was the Countess Maria, without doubt. She looked exactly as she does in that portrait there. And there's still no explanation for dear Margaret's wandering spectre."

I was tempted to tell her the truth, but remembered the promise that Holmes and I had made to Eve, and so bit my lip.

"Then there's the rest of it!" Miss Strange went on, her pale brow creased in perplexity. "Those damn jewels! Where are they? And what's more, what on earth am I going to do without them?"

At her words, I suddenly remembered something, and fetched Eve's sewing bag from where I had stowed it under the dining room table.

"Miss Strange," I said, hurriedly; "I have to tell you something. The man that you were going to sell the Tsarina's necklace to..."

"Not so loud!" Miss Strange urged, glancing, nervously out of the dining room doorway.

"He's been here," I said, lowering my voice. "Mr. Holmes has discovered he's been staying in the village."

Miss Strange's eyes widened, and her face suddenly resembled that of a startled rabbit, her cold and icy veneer scratched to reveal the fear beneath.

"Staying in the village?" she gasped, clawing at her neck. "But why would..?"

"He's dangerous!" I insisted. "Mr. Holmes has crossed him before. Please, Miss Strange, you're not safe here!" I thrust the jewel-filled sewing bag in to her hands. "You have to leave."

With a bewildered look on her face, Miss Strange opened the stuffed sewing bag, and then gasped, and blinked in disbelief at what was inside.

"But..." she stammered, looking up at me, and then nervously placing her hand in amongst the glittering jewellery. "But what are these? Where did they come from?"

"They're mine," I said, almost truthfully (After all, Eve _had_ given them to me.) "You can sell them. They won't be worth as much as the Tsarina's jewels, but I'm sure you could live comfortably by them, until you find a more permanent solution. Perhaps you'd like to use the money for your wedding?" I added with a blush.

To my great surprise, Miss Strange suddenly threw her arms around me, and sobbed grateful tears in to my shoulder.

"_Thank you!_" she said, passionately. "Oh, thank you! Oh, you've no idea how I've yearned to get away from here! How can I ever repay you?"

I could not help but smile, and feel a warm glow of happiness for her.

After Miss Strange had left, fairly dancing from the dining room, I sat down at the table, and poured myself a glass of claret (or dandelion and burdock, as I soon found to my disappointment,) when I suddenly heard the drawing room door open from across the entrance hall. Hurrying to the door, I cautiously looked out, and saw Mortimer hurrying up the staircase, with his flat black cap lowered over his eyes. I watched and waited for him to come back down the stairs, and he soon did, and retreated back in to the drawing room bearing a mysterious black bag. I continued to watch the drawing room for nearly an hour, but there was no further movement after that. Mycroft himself disappeared inside not long after Mortimer returned with his bag, and did not so much as poke his head out again. Finally tiring of being in the dining room, I abandoned my post, and went to go up to my room and wait for eight o'clock to come around. As I did so, however, I passed close to the drawing room door to see if I could hear a snatch of conversation, and was surprised, not by what I heard, but what I smelled. It was the unmistakable scent of Holmes's tobacco, coming, quite distinctly, from under the drawing room door. I was rather thrown by this, as I had been watching the entrance hall the entire time, and not seen Holmes return. But I was too weary to think anymore, and went up to my room, resigning myself to simply wait for Holmes to reveal all.

I decided to pass the remaining time with one of Holmes's monographs which I had brought with me (Holmes had written several monographs on various different subjects, and had set me the challenge of reading them,) and immersed myself as well as I could in a cloud of heady language on the subject of secret ciphers. It was not until a quarter to eight that I was roused from my book by a knock on my bedroom door, and Eve Strange entered.

"Mr. Mycroft wants us to come down to the drawing room at once," she said, and I could see in her face that she was just as nervous and excited as I was.

With a thudding heart, I followed Eve down the stairs to the entrance hall, where the entire Strange family, including Watson, were gathered. I exchanged a long glance with him, but it was evident that he knew no more than I did. He politely took my arm as we walked in to the drawing room, with the Strange family following behind, and found Mycroft stood alone by the settee, dusting down his waistcoat with his red silk handkerchief in a very ordinary fashion. I looked around the dimly lit drawing room, but there was no sign of Holmes (Although the lingering smell of his tobacco informed me that he had indeed been there.) The drawing room had been somewhat transformed since we had been ejected from it – The bay windows were concealed by the same purple velvet curtains that had decorated the parlour on the night of the séance, and the only source of light in the room was the fire, which Mycroft almost blocked as he stood before it, casting jet black shadows across the room.

"Thank you for coming," he said, brightly to the roomful of pale, perplexed faces that stood before him. "I trust we are all here?"

"Not quite," Sir Edward said, looking around. "There's only Florence and Mortimer..."

"Mortimer is a little busy at present," Mycroft said, gesturing for everyone to sit down. "And Miss Cooper has been rather upset by Mrs. Potter's death. I sent her down to the village to stay with her mother. Now, I expect you're all wondering why you're here..."

"Don't drag this out, man!" Thomas Strange barked. "Just tell us who murdered Ruth and the Potters, and who took those bloody jewels! And where's the other Mr. Holmes? Isn't _he _supposed to be the detective?"

I rather felt like slapping the man for his arrogance, but Mycroft merely smiled, pleasantly in reply.

"Sherlock will be here shortly, Mr. Strange," he said. "But for now, I'd like you to pay attention, if you would? As you can see, we have attempted to recreate, to some extent, the atmosphere in the parlour on the night of Lady Ruth's murder. It is my intention to summon a new spirit in to the room, in an attempt to understand the phenomena that took place that night. Miss Strange, if you would?"

The room turned to look at Clara Strange, who stared up at Mycroft from the settee.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, in a peculiarly high voice.

"You are a medium, I understand? If you would be so kind as to call out to the spirit world, and ask for a spirit to come in to this room with us, I would be most grateful."

Miss Strange continued to look startled for a moment, then seemed to begin to process Mycroft's request in her mind.

"Well, I...As you wish."

I felt the gaze of the entire room fix on Miss Strange as she sat on the settee, her hands resting on her lap, and her eyes gradually becoming more and more softly focused, as she made a series of peculiar humming noises in her throat. Then, her shoulders slumped, and she gave a long, slow blink, before calling out in a disturbingly deep and husky voice, that made my flesh creep;

"May the veil be lifted for us tonight. May our mortal hands reach beyond, and brush with the fingers of those we have lost. May death cease to divide us, and may our ancestors come forth in to this room tonight. Spirit, are you there?"

There was a pause, the silence broken only by the sound of Mr. Strange tutting, loudly.

"Spirits from beyond, we welcome you here," Miss Strange continued, seemingly unperturbed by the lack of response from the spirit world. "We in this room honour you, and request your presence. Please, make yourself felt, so that we may know what is yet unknown. _Is there anybody_ _– ?"_

Miss Strange's bizarre chant was interrupted suddenly by the grandfather clock chiming out the hour of eight. A terrified scream from Eve made me leap from my chair in fright, and I looked over at the girl to find that she was pointing, white faced and trembling, across the room to the concealed windows. I followed the trail of her finger with my eyes, and felt every hair on my body stand on end at what I saw. The purple velvet curtains covering the window alcove had fallen to the floor, and there, seated on the window seat with his long legs crossed before him, was the smiling, translucent, but utterly real _phantom_ of Sherlock Holmes.


	18. Chapter 17

**Note from Agatha: SUPER CHAPTER! And this one wanders in to the realms of the creepy, so beware! Penultimate chapter.**

* * *

The room was flung in to chaos as the Strange family all either leapt or fell from their chairs, clinging to each other, and darting about the room. Watson had rushed to the front of the pack, daring to get as close to the spirit as he could, and gawping at it with a face that I can only describe as horrified wonder. In the midst of shouts of amazement and fleeing people desperate to leave the drawing room, however, I stood still. Something wasn't right. This, I told myself, _could not_ have been the spirit of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes wasn't dead. I will admit that for one chilling second, I was gripped with the fear that the mysterious man in the village who seemed to be shadowing Holmes had made the detective his victim; but when I pondered on it, the theory that this was one of Holmes's tricks seemed much more likely. And that was when I noticed the reflection of the fire gleaming beside Holmes's apparent apparition...

"_Stop!_" I called to the room, as realisation dawned on me. "Don't you see? It's only a reflection!"

"Very well observed, Miss Winchester."

The entire room came to an abrupt stop as Sherlock Holmes emerged from the library doorway, and crossed over to the windows. He was strangely dressed in a pair of pinstripe trousers, an old, worn waistcoat, and a black tailcoat, with a double Albert watchchain around his waist. I tried to think where I had seen the clothes before, and realised that they were Mortimer's. It suddenly came to me that the person I had seen returning that afternoon with the pane of glass, and the person I had seen hurrying down the stairs with the mysterious black bag had not been Mortimer at all; it had been _Holmes._

"_This_, ladies and gentleman, if you will so kindly observe," Holmes said, grandly, to his astounded audience, "is your ghost!"

He rapped his knuckles on the large pane of glass that had been placed upright on the window seat, and which was nearly invisible in the dim light of the room.

"You see," Holmes said, gesturing to the library door; "through there is a large, strategically positioned mirror, and the chair on which I sat. This afternoon, my brother Mycroft and I placed all these elements as you see them now, and also placed a large globe oil lamp beside my chair. My chair was positioned so that my form was reflected in the mirror – And the mirror itself, due to its angle, was reflected in this sheet of glass, once the light from the oil lamp made my figure bright enough to appear clearly in it.

However, as we so often observe, a figure reflected in clear glass appears almost transparent. This is what created the illusion of the Countess Maria Chernikova's ghost on the night of Lady Ruth's death – The mirror which we found shattered outside the parlour door was placed there shortly before the séance began, in order to reflect the portrait of the Countess in the dining room on to a sheet of clear glass, which was concealed behind the velvet curtains that adorned the walls. The fire was the only source of light in the room, making the transparent glass almost impossible to see, but the illuminated figure reflected in it quite clear.

It is an illusion known as Pepper's Ghost, named after the Professor John Pepper, who perfected the illusion many years ago. It is commonly used in theatre, and by magicians and fraudulent mediums alike when they wish to make a ghost appear."

A series of angry eyes turned on Clara Strange, who sat, white faced and bewildered on the settee.

"You're not suggesting this has anything to do with me?" she shrieked, cowering away from the furious faces that were glaring at her.

"I thoroughly believe that it doesn't, Miss Strange," Holmes said, reassuringly. "However, someone _did _slip this rather ingenious effect in to the parlour that night..."

"But, Mr. Holmes," Eve interrupted, timidly; "Please, I think you must have it wrong. When I ran out in to the dining room after...well, after what happened...there was no mirror near the door. I would have noticed it. And the spirit that appeared in the parlour wasn't a portrait, it was _real_. It looked angrily at Ruth..."

"No, Miss Strange, it did not," Holmes said, matter-of-factly. "All those things are, I'm afraid, embellishments added by your imagination. False memories are quite common. As for your not noticing the mirror, I am frankly not surprised, considering the state of mind you were in. You would not have seen it through your terror to get away from the dining room, nor would you have noticed as you knocked it over in your haste, causing it to shatter on the floor."

"But if it wasn't _Clara _who made that thing appear," Mr. Strange said, fairly spitting out his sister's name, "then who on earth was it? And why did they do it?"

"Why indeed?" Holmes wondered, as he prowled about the room like a cat. "And why did they choose to murder Lady Ruth and the Potters, and Lady Margaret Strange five years ago?"

The reaction in the room could not have been more startling if Holmes had suddenly brandished a whip.

"_Murdered?_" Mrs. Strange hissed, her face blanched white. "Dear Margaret?"

"But that was Ruth!" Eve said, insistently. "It was her, Mr. Holmes, it was!"

I looked at Holmes's eyes as they turned to the poor, frantic Eve Strange and her father, who had stood up, trembling and seemingly on the verge of hysteria, behind her – They were heavy with sadness, their smouldering grey now darkened to its full, passionate extent, and I felt that I could quite easily have fallen in to those eyes and kept on falling forever, so deep did they seem.

"Sir Edward," he said, quietly, to the gentleman; "I am sorry to have to tell you that your first wife _was _murdered – by an extremely cold and calculating person, who disguised her murder as a sickness. But that person was not your stepmother, Miss Strange," he added, looking at Eve. "Of that I am quite certain."

"But then who was it, Mr. Holmes?" Miss Darby said, desperately. "Who could have done such a thing, first to Lady Margaret, and then to Lady Ruth, and poor Mr. and Mrs. Potter? What kind of monster is this person?"

There was a long, icy pause. Holmes's face had fallen completely still, and I could have been persuaded that he had died whilst standing up, had it not been for the sudden, small twitch present in his left eye. Slowly, he twisted round to look at Miss Darby, and glared directly in to her face.

"_Your _kind of monster, Miss Darby," he said, in a voice laden with disgust.

I felt as though I had been struck by lightning. Then, as the shock subsided, and I looked at Miss Darby, I nearly laughed. _Miss Anna Darby_, a cold-blooded murderer? The skies would sooner turn green, surely?

It seemed that I was not the only one who was struggling to believe in Miss Darby's guilt, for Watson frowned harder than I had ever seen him frown, and Eve looked at Holmes almost angrily. Thomas Strange was shaking his head.

"Oh no, Mr. Holmes!" he said with a laugh. "I'm afraid you're quite wrong on this one! Anna hasn't the nature to harm anyone, we all know that."

"Whom would you suggest as a more credible murderer then, Mr. Strange?" Holmes asked, with a particularly vicious edge to his voice. Mr. Strange almost cowered back.

"Well...If you're looking for a killer's temperament, I'd look no further than Eddie!" he said, focusing on his brother. "And as for pure shamelessness, you won't find finer than Clara!"

"Thomas!" Miss Strange cried.

"Kill my own wife?" Sir Edward said, making his way towards his brother. "Do you think me some serial widower, who marries women only to kill them? And what about poor Ethel and George? Why on earth should I want to murder them..?"

There was a sudden slam, and we all whirled round to see Holmes and Miss Darby standing on the other side of the room, Holmes with his hand pressed, firmly against the door.

"You're not leaving this room, Miss Darby," Holmes said, darkly. "I won't let you."

"This is absurd!" Miss Darby shrieked, clawing at her neck. "You're a madman, Mr. Holmes, a vain, twisted madman, who would do anything to prove his own ludicrous theories right!.."

There was something strange in Miss Darby's voice, something which I had never heard in it before, and which I had never thought I would hear in it in all my life – A wild, frantic, _violent _edge, which was deeply and yet mysteriously disturbing, as though it was connected with some dreamy, half-remembered fear in the human subconscious. It was the voice of a madwoman. It frightened me;

"Holmes..."

"You will see how this viper came to slither in to the heart of your home, Sir Edward," Holmes said, looking up at the man. "From the very beginning, I knew these murders had required much intelligent planning and patience; and who, I ask you, has more intelligence and patience than an experienced governess?"

"This is ridiculous!" Miss Darby spat, grabbing the handle of the door, and attempting to wrench it open.

"I'm afraid I agree with Anna, Mr. Holmes," Sir Edward said, sternly. "I could never see her doing something so terrible..."

"I suppose you could never see her stealing the Tsarina's gems either, Sir Edward?" Holmes said, suddenly. "Brother Mine!"

Mycroft reached under a table, and produced the black bag I had seen Holmes with earlier. In it was the cushion I had seen Miss Darby embroidering that morning – The one with the belladonna pattern. Miss Darby's eyes widened when she saw it.

"It was rather foolish of you," Holmes said, with an almost gloating look on his face, "to embroider the cushion in which you had hidden the stolen gems with an image of the very plant you had used to poison Lady Ruth."

I felt that I would surely die from the ghastliness of it all!

"_Give that to me!_" Miss Darby screamed, launching herself across the room at Mycroft.

In the blink of an eye, Thomas and Clara Strange had thrown themselves forward, and seized the raving woman by her arms, holding her, tightly, as she thrashed and screamed in their grasp, while Mycroft tore open the side of the cushion, and brought something glittering out in to the firelight. The fantastic, jewelled necklace of the Tsarina Alexandra swung from his hand. Stunned, Sir Edward came forward, and looked at the once pleasant and peaceful face of Anna Darby, which was now creased with rage.

"Anna?" he said, in barely more than a whisper. It sounded as though he no longer recognised her.

Holmes, meanwhile, looked down in to the passionately flushed face of the psychotic woman, held prisoner between Thomas and Clara Strange.

"Your faith in this woman has been greatly misplaced, Sir Edward," he said, gravely. "After she had been in your employment for a number of years, Miss Darby developed an unholy passion for you – I dare not use so pure a word as love to describe your obsessive want for him!" he said, almost snarling at Miss Darby. "You yearned to be his wife, and the mother of the children whom you had come to care for as your own. So you plotted to poison the Lady Margaret, whom you hated and envied with a passion..."

"_No!_" Eve shouted, tearfully. "No, that's not true! Ruth, Ruth..."

"Your stepmother had neither the cleverness nor the patience to be behind your mother's death, Miss Strange," Holmes said. "Nor did she have an interest in Mrs. Potter's herb garden, which your mother's murderer undoubtedly did. Your mother was slowly poisoned over a long period of time with mistletoe – I realised that after you described her symptoms to me, and I found them to be similar to Miss Winchester's on the day _she_ was poisoned. A large dose of mistletoe can bring on a seizure, followed by cardiac arrest. Miss Darby brought tea tainted with mistletoe to your mother everyday to ensure she remained weak, and then, after several months, administered the fatal dose. It appeared to the rest of the household merely to be a long, incurable sickness, which eventually resulted in her death."

He turned to the restrained Miss Darby, and gave a cold sneer.

"But then something _unexpected _happened, didn't it? Sir Edward didn't marry you...He married Lady Ruth. Though you were no doubt furious, and felt that she had taken away what was rightfully yours, the death of the lady so soon after her wedding would have been suspicious to say the least – Even more so considering that Sir Edward's first wife had died just two years before. So you secretly seethed, and loathed, and uttered vile curses on the lady's name from a distance, until one day, it was announced that Lady Ruth would be having her portrait painted with the Tsarina's jewels, which was the honour of every woman in the Strange family...An honour which you believed would have been yours, had it not been for Lady Ruth. And suddenly, you could bear it no more.

You plotted to kill Lady Ruth, and disguise her death as either the act of the Countess's curse, or the act of a jewel thief, come to take the Tsarina's jewels before they were sent back to Russia. After all, who would suspect _you _of taking the jewels? You didn't want them. You have never wanted them. All you have ever wanted is to be Sir Edward's wife. And so you planned your murder, patiently and meticulously, using the Pepper's Ghost illusion to create the Countess Maria's vengeful spirit..."

To my deep horror, and clearly to the horror of everyone else in the room – for they all drew back suddenly – Miss Darby smiled. Not the polite, sunny smile which usually adorned her features, but one of the blackest smiles I have ever seen, a smile of pure contempt.

"You can't prove it!" she hissed, mockingly at Holmes. "How would I even have known how to make this Pepper's Ghost?"

Holmes retaliated with his own sardonic smile.

"You have known how since you were a child, Miss Darby," he said. "Your father was a stage magician of some repute – I discovered that during my visit to Thorn Acre yesterday. I knew that it could only have been a person with a knowledge of stage magic who produced the illusion we saw in the parlour that night. Upon examining the grate, I found traces of a certain powder, which is commonly used by magicians to extinguish fire in an instant. Likewise, it could only have been a magician – or a magician's daughter – who used the skill of knife throwing to murder Mrs. Potter.

Unfortunately, Miss Darby, you believed so much in your own cleverness that you believed you could fool even I! After you had stolen the gems and the silverware, hiding the gems in one of your unembroidered cushions, and the silverware somewhere in the grounds, you encouraged Sir Edward to summon me in order to investigate the theft of the jewels, believing myself, Dr. Watson and my brother Mycroft to be ideal candidates for filling the three remaining seats at your cursed dinner table. You relished the idea of getting away with murder under the nose of a detective!"

I had never seen Holmes's eyes so icy, and I feared that at any moment he would strike Miss Darby (Despite how much I wanted to myself, I realised that it was an unwise course of action.)

"But then, disaster struck your plan," Holmes continued, relentlessly, though Miss Darby remained stonily silent. "The arrival of a fourth person was announced at the last moment. Wanting to keep Miss Winchester away from dinner that night, you formed a hasty plan to poison her with some spare sprigs of mistletoe you had collected from Mrs. Potter's garden as subjects for your embroidery, and used your lipstick to draw a number 14 on the bottom of your own teacup, to tie in with the theme of the curse. It was a very desperate attempt," he added, scornfully. "All that remained then was for you to switch your own poisoned cup with Miss Winchester's – An easy thing for you to do, as I imagine you are quite well practised in sleight of hand tricks.

Then, to the murder of Lady Ruth. It was quite simple. You knew that Lady Ruth would have claret with her dessert instead of port, and you knew where the claret was kept – In a cupboard in Sir Edward's study. All it took was a few crushed berries of belladonna added to the bottle. At dinner, you ensured that Lady Ruth was the first to leave the table by jogging Mortimer's elbow, so that he dropped the syrup pot over her. Then to the séance, where you helped to prepare the parlour with Miss Strange and Miss Eve. Little did they know that you had already moved the glass pane essential for your illusion in to the room, and you promptly covered it with Miss Strange's velvet curtains. But you made one small addition to them – You attached a length of fine string, such as I did tonight, which you could used to pull aside the curtain, and reveal your ghost. The preparation for the illusion was completed when we all entered the parlour after dinner, and you lingered behind for a minute to set the mirror in to place without anyone noticing.

The affects of belladonna poisoning are quite horrific. The poison causes wild muscle spasms and hallucinations, which explains Lady Ruth's dying screams of '_Can't you see them?_' Once the poison had taken full affect, you threw your handful of powder in to the fire, and took advantage of the darkness by re-covering the pane of glass, and drawing the number 13 on to Lady Ruth's forehead with your lipstick..."

"How _could _you?" Eve spat, viciously. "You snake! You demon! You murdered my mother! You murdered _both _my mothers!.."

"Eve, darling..!" Miss Darby protested, with some of the old sweetness in her voice.

"_You will not talk to my daughter!_" Sir Edward bellowed, gripping Eve's shoulder, protectively. "Go on, Mr. Holmes. Let me hear it all. What about poor Ethel and George? Why did she kill them?"

Miss Darby almost growled at Holmes, but he simply glowered back (Holmes could be the most frightening of people at times,) and went on producing one horrifying fact after the next;

"I'm afraid young Florence was most indiscreet with the fact that Mrs. Potter had discovered a clue which she wished to show me. It was, as Miss Darby realised, the goblet she had been drinking from on the terrace the morning after Lady Ruth's death, which she had left some traces of her lipstick on – The same red lipstick she had used to leave the numbers 14 and 13 on the bottom of Miss Winchester's cup and on Lady Ruth's body. But why on _earth _did you kill Mrs. Potter when she had already given me the goblet?" he asked. "Surely it must have been obvious to you how useless the action was?"

Miss Darby merely looked at Holmes with her mouse-coloured eyes, which now seemed to flash gold with pure fury.

"Ah," said Holmes, as though reading her look; "I see. You panicked, that was all. And I suppose it was panic also that led you to write the number 11 on Mr. Potter's forehead when you found him hanging in the summer house?"

"Found him?" Sir Edward said. "You mean she didn't kill him?"

"No, I do not think so," Holmes said, still looking at Miss Darby, thoughtfully. "It is quite difficult to kill someone by hanging them. I believe Mr. Potter discovered his wife's body, and then, in a state of despair, committed suicide, whereon Miss Darby found him, and decided to use his death to her advantage by making him appear to be another victim of the curse...Despite the fact that he was among those who should not have been affected, I might add..."

Miss Darby suddenly lashed out, kicking Mr. Strange in the stomach, and breaking free of his and Miss Strange's grip.

"I won't hang!" she cackled, manically, and she dashed across the room; "I won't hang, I won't hang! You know I won't!"

Watson approached Holmes, gravely.

"She's right, Holmes," he muttered. "The woman is clearly unstable. She'll never hang for these murders..."

"I did it!" Miss Darby screeched, triumphantly. "I did it, I did it! I beat Sherlock Holmes! I always knew I could! When I read about you, I knew! That's why I invited you here! You're not invincible, you know. Someone will get you, one day...A Napoleon."

Here she turned suddenly, and looked, sadly towards Sir Edward and Eve.

"You can't imagine how I love you both," she said; "And dear little Adam. But Ruth wasn't meant to be here, and neither was Margaret. Don't you see?" A truly chilling expression adorned her face as she advanced towards Sir Edward and Eve. "_I'm _your wife really, Edward! And Eve, I'm your mother! This is where _I _belong. Not Margaret or Ruth. They _had _to die..."

The door to the drawing room flew open suddenly, and in marched a swarm of policemen, led by Inspector Douglas and Mortimer (who was dressed in Holmes's suit. The two had obviously exchanged clothes outside the house.)

"That'll do for a confession, I think," Inspector Douglas said, triumphantly. "Beautiful work, Mr. Holmes, I must say. I take my hat off to you."

Miss Darby staggered across the room in terror, with the rest of the Strange family parting before her as though she were a leper.

"Stay back!" she cried, her eyes wide and savage. "Don't come near me! I won't hang, I won't hang..!"

"_Murderer!"_

A chill swept up my spine at the sound of the word, breathed by a strange, husky voice. Everyone turned to see Clara Strange standing in the middle of the room, her face deathly pale, and her eyes rolling back in to her head, while she swayed on the spot.

"_Murderer! Murderer!"_

"Clara?" Mrs. Strange gasped, making towards her. "Clara, can you – ?"

Screams ripped through the drawing room as the fire was suddenly extinguished, and everything plunged in to darkness. Along with the light went all warmth in the room, and I felt goosebumps rise on my flesh as I shivered at the sudden cold. I was terrified now, and I groped, madly about, searching for another person, but could reach no one. Desperate, I listened amongst the many yelling voices, trying to determine who was nearest to me...

"_Clara! Clara, wake up! Wake up!" _

That was Mrs. Strange.

"_What's going on? What in God's name is going on here? Someone light a match!.." _

Inspector Douglas.

"_Father! Father!" _

Eve Strange. And, perhaps loudest of all...

"_HARRIETT! HARRIETT!"_

Holmes..._Holmes!_

"_Holmes!" _I called, desperately in to the darkness, before I suddenly collided with something big, round, and smelling quite distinctly of soap, old books, and mint humbugs...

"Mycroft!" I said, gladly.

And I was indeed glad that I had found Mycroft, for a moment later the fire was rekindled, and I screamed in horror at the sight of Anna Darby's body lying, face down at my feet. I just had time to glimpse the fallen portrait of Lady Margaret Strange across the room before I buried my face in to Mycroft's waistcoat...


	19. Chapter 18

"I've brought down the last of your cases, miss."

I started out of my grim daydreams, and looked up to see Mortimer standing beside me. I found it strange that, whilst before I would have cringed away from the sight of the unsettling man, I now felt no fear in looking at his tawny yellow eyes, and his stern, withering expression – It was certainly nothing compared to the madness of Miss Darby.

"Thank you, Mortimer," I said, nodding, politely at him, and I made my way towards the front door (It would be another hour before our carriage arrived, I knew, but I felt as though I were suffocating within the black walls of that house.)

As I crossed the entrance hall, however, I heard a groan of despair come from the dining room, and looked through the doorway to see Holmes standing with his hand on the shoulder of Thomas Strange, who was slumped in a chair, with a crumpled paper clutched in his hand.

"...You mustn't shed tears over her, Mr. Strange," I heard Holmes say as I approached the dining room. "I have never been able to understand the motives of women myself. I am sure that you were the best of husbands, but I am equally sure that you will live a perfectly happy and contented life without her. You may even marry again..."

"What's happened?" I asked, leaning in to the room.

Mr. Strange, without looking up, held out the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. As I took it, Holmes explained;

"Mrs. Strange appears to have packed her things in the middle of the night, and left the house. Miss Strange seems to have gone with her. The two of them left nothing behind, save for that note..."

"Alice has applied for divorce," Mr. Strange muttered from behind his hands. "She says that she's fallen in love with someone else, and intends to marry them. She doesn't want me to try and find her. Apparently Clara knew all along, and has gone with her to take care of her..."

"I did observe that they seemed to have a very close bond," Holmes commented. As he spoke, he looked, meaningfully at me, and gave a slow, sly wink. My head reeled as I realised what he meant.

Mr. Strange sat, sorrowfully in the dining room for a few more minutes, before Holmes finally persuaded him to go up to his room to write a letter to a friend with whom he could stay for a while. I waited until the man had disappeared at the top of the stairs, before running over, and grabbing Holmes by the front of his coat.

"Holmes!" I said, seriously, looking up in to his distinctly amused face. "Alice and Clara Strange! Are they..?"

"I believe they have been for quite some time, Miss Winchester, yes," Holmes said, struggling to repress one of the enigmatic smiles that on rare occasions graced his features.

"_But they can't get married!_" I spluttered. "How could..? Do women even _do _that sort of thing?.."

"I doubt that they will be getting married," Holmes said, thoughtfully. "Despite the fact that there is technically no law against such a thing, I cannot see a priest agreeing to wed two women...Priests are rather arrogant in that respect...However, they are embarking on a new life together, and I believe that the two of them shall benefit greatly from it. Mrs. Strange will certainly be happier with Miss Strange than she was with her husband."

It suddenly struck me that the jewellery I had given to Miss Strange would undoubtedly be used to support both herself and Mrs. Strange as they forged their new, secret life together. After much consideration, I decided that my only regret in the matter was the fact that they would have to keep it a secret.

Holmes and I walked together out of the house. Outside, the sun shone, brightly, as though we had walked in to a completely different world to the one inside Strange Hall. I stood underneath the stone arch of the door, and breathed in the scent of fresh air, grass, and blooming Lily of the Valley, feeling some sort of closure as I finally stepped away from that damned house – It was all over now. In the middle of the courtyard stood a large police wagon, accompanied by a steely-looking Inspector Douglas. Close to the wagon were Mycroft and Sir Edward, who were talking, gravely to each other. I caught the end of their conversation as Holmes and I approached them;

"...I really can't thank you enough, Mycroft, old friend."

"I'm flattered, Edward, but really it's Sherlock you should be thanking...Ah, here he is!"

Noticing our approach, Sir Edward rushed over, and grasped Holmes by the hand.

"And you, Mr. Holmes! All I wanted was for you to find the Tsarina's jewels, but you came and purged my entire house from sin!"

"Not at all, Sir Edward, I am happy to have been of service. My only regret is that you should ever have had to have gone through such a thing."

Sir Edward's face – its colouring now permanently changed, it seemed, to a sickly white – writhed in agony, as a series of memories clearly flashed through his mind.

"It was all for the best," he said, quietly. "Without you, I would never have known the truth about my poor, dear Margaret. Goodbye Mr. Holmes, Mycroft, Miss Winchester – " he shook each of us by the hand – "I hope you arrive back in London safely."

"Take care, Edward," Mycroft muttered under his breath (It seems, looking back on it, almost as though he _knew_ of Sir Edward's fate, for the poor man was destined to die a year later, his nerves no doubt destroyed by the horror of all that had happened to his family.)

Sir Edward gave us all a weak parting smile, and then hurried back to the house, with the three of us looking, sadly after him as he went.

"Don't look like that, Holmes," I said, gently, noticing Holmes's distinctly sour expression. "You _did_ solve the case, after all."

"I was called upon to recover some stolen jewels, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, his voice bearing its usual cutting authority, but his eyes bleak and crestfallen. "In that area at least, I have succeeded. But as regards the rest of the case, I failed to prevent the loss of three innocent lives, and have left a household broken beyond repair. In no sense can this case be considered a success."

I remained silent, for I knew that nothing I could offer would lift Holmes's spirits. He was fixed upon the conclusion that his final victory meant nothing in comparison to the hideous deaths and emotional turmoil that had occurred, and, rather than try to convince him otherwise, I decided that it was better to simply let him brood and accept it, and then leave Strange Hall behind forever. Our grey silence was at last interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and we looked up to see Watson coming across the courtyard with his doctor's bag.

"Well, Watson?" Holmes asked, with sharp curiosity. "What is your verdict?"

"A heart attack," Watson said, decidedly (though his face looked far from convinced.) "There is nothing else it can be. Blood flow seems to have stopped altogether quite suddenly, and I found no marks upon the body, and no trace of poison in her pockets, which rules out both murder and suicide. She died, Holmes, and that is all."

A strange sense of coldness was creeping over me, and I looked up at Holmes and Mycroft, and then up at Strange Hall, a great, dark shape against the beautiful blue sky.

"Holmes?" I said, almost struggling to speak, as my throat was as dry as a bone; "What happened in that drawing room?"

"I think it best for us not to dwell on the matter, Miss Winchester," Holmes replied, darkly.

"Quite so," Mycroft agreed. "When is the body being brought out, Dr. Watson?"

Watson opened his mouth to reply, but a moment later the question was answered for him, as the front door swung open, and out stepped two uniformed constables, carrying something between them.

"Here she comes," Watson muttered.

I gasped, and put a hand to my throat, as the object that the two policemen were carrying towards us was revealed to be a stretcher bearing the body of Miss Anna Darby, grimly covered with a snow-white sheet. The four of us watched in bleak silence, as the stretcher was taken past us, and lifted inside the waiting police wagon, where the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Potter had already been placed. Despite the misery that that awful woman had wrought, I still felt a pang of pity.

"It still doesn't seem real!" I muttered, shaking my head. "I never would have seen her as a murderer!"

"Neither would I," Watson sighed.

"You should not blame yourselves," Holmes said, lighting a cigarette as he watched Inspector Douglas exchange a brief word with his constables, and then climb up in to the driver's seat of the wagon, shaking the reins, and urging the horses forward. "Miss Darby was a cunning young woman. I too failed to see her true nature behind her cloak of reassuring smiles and seeming gentleness at first. Even the presence of mistletoe used as a poison did not prompt me as to what this crime was truly motivated by..."

"The mistletoe?" I said with a frown. "How could the mistletoe have told you anything?"

Holmes looked down at me, his grey eyes shining with wisdom, and the corners of his mouth twitching in to a slight, sad smile.

"Mistletoe, Miss Winchester – Sacred to the ancient Norse goddess Freya, Goddess of Love. Where do you believe the tradition of sharing a kiss beneath the mistletoe comes from? That distinctly romantic plant would no doubt have seemed a very fitting poison to Miss Darby, to rid Sir Edward of his first wife, and encourage him in to her own arms."

Mycroft shook his head, sadly;

"Love makes a true mockery of respectable people," he said.

* * *

**Note from Agatha: TA-DAAAA! Second story finished! Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and favourites! :D My third Harriett Winchester story will be called 'The Man With the Twisted Mind.' Bye for now x **


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